Counterpoint
by mya
Summary: A Starcraft novel - please read the intro...
1. Introduction

COUNTERPOINT - INTRODUCTION  
  
Right, well, this is the first fan fiction I ever wrote - I started this thing about two years ago now, and have been adding to it ever since. I had these grand plans as to how it would progress, and way back then, I considered it to be this marvellous feat of writing. It's nothing of the sort, of course. Looking back, it's easy to see dozens of things wrong with it - unoriginality, awkward plot devices, dull dialogue, the fact that it's mind-numbingly boring in places, plus loads of other things. Over time, though, I've learnt to see Counterpoint as a sort of teaching tool. I'm fairly confident that I'm a better writer now than when I started it, and hopefully by adding to it every now and then, I can hone my skills further, and apply them to other, preferably shorter works.  
  
A word of warning; as I've indicated, this story starts out crap (and I mean severely crap) and very slowly improves. It's also extremely long - for people who enjoy that, then read it and see what you reckon, but if you don't like long stories, then please steer clear, because this will piss you off no end. It's currently in the process of being edited (hence the removal and prolonged absence - I'll keep adding to it as I write/edit), so it should be a little easier to read, and hopefully to enjoy.  
  
So, enjoy!  
  
  



	2. Chapter 1: The Soldier - Part 1

  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
Chapter I: The Soldier  
Part I  
  
By Mya Thevendra   
30/10/99  
  
  
  
"Bang.  
  
It doesn't sound quite like that.  
  
It's hard to accurately describe the exact noise that's made as an 8mm C-14 spike leaves the barrel of a Confederacy issue gauss rifle at a velocity of more than five times the speed of sound, then penetrates organically reinforced bone, before passing through layer after layer of muscle and soft tissue...  
  
But then, it's not the noise that grabs your attention."  
  
  
  
  
The dropship thundered into the atmosphere, the blackness of space falling away behind a blistering, roaring curtain of fire. As freezing air was heated to a temperature that would incinerate a living human, the transport shuddered, the vibration of the hull turning every visible thing inside into a sickening blur. Every joint and fixture rattled and shook as though the ship itself would fly apart from the strain. The normally pitch-black interior was ablaze with an orange flare as the firestorm outside shone in through reinforced viewports, and as power throughout the ship was shunted to manoeuvring control, the small green and red diode lights that were scattered about the cabin dimmed and flickered. Inside, nineteen passengers sat waiting. Ian Latimer stared blankly at the opposite side of the compartment, idly following the trembling contours of the wall with vacant eyes. The exercise had become routine long ago, focusing on a single point or object, and singling it out from the rest of the visual commotion. It was an effective method of combating nausea, and after having endured the ordeal of atmospheric entry so many times he did it almost automatically. He sat fastened to the bulkhead behind him, security straps and bracing bars bundling him and each of the others to the sides of the cabin. As the world around him shook itself to pieces, Ian leant back and closed his eyes.  
  
Just short of twelve hours earlier, the 141st "Spider Monkey" Confederate Marine brigade under his command had begun its transfer to the newly established Fort Sunderland military installation on the bleak desert planet of Widow XII. An environment desolate beyond comparison, the planet was endowed with its fair share of sandy dunes, and sweeping, dolomite mountain ranges formed long ago when much of the planet's surface was still covered by water. The vast majority of the landscape, however, was blanketed in a wide expanse of empty, cracked earth. This thick, desiccated mantle extended in every direction, its monotony broken only occasionally by shallow rocky gorges, and itinerant ranges of swirling dust and sand.  
Although outwardly barren, Widow XII harboured small pockets of natural resources, accessible via several networks of subterranean caverns, which had unfolded over a period of millennia beneath the seams of torrid earth. These caverns, and the resources therein, had previously remained undetected by the long-range sensor scans performed by confederate planetary survey teams. An intensive short range scan later conducted from the planet's orbit, however, revealed these hidden economic assets and thus unlocked Widow XII's inherent tactical value, being situated within striking distance of enemy territory. Nine weeks ago, construction began on a permanent confederate military outpost from which to launch strategic attacks across the border. Transfer of the "Spider Monkey" marine brigade to the new installation was authorised on the Confederate Standard Date 7/10/2589.  
  
He remembered it.  
  
He remembered complaining that he had only been informed of the transfer two days prior to its taking effect. He remembered pointing out that the brigade had not yet finished their station on Choman V, and that if transferred immediately, as ordered, would have to be pulled out in mid-assignment, and he remembered voicing his utmost concern to his commanding officer, Brigadier Phillip Watkins, as the two of them walked side by side along the gleaming metal corridors of Anglian Confederate command, that there was still no orbital fleet in position above the planet to guard against possible enemy landing attempts or counter attacks. And then the Brigadier, even while he continued walking and nodding to passing officers, glanced at him obliquely, and answered in a low voice,  
  
"Don't worry about it Ian. It's not your problem..."  
  
He remembered that part most of all.  
  
The uproar intensified, reaching its violent crescendo, deafening and furious, before the dropship at last pierced the planet's ozone layer and soared through into the ionosphere. Ian craned his neck and peered through the viewport behind him. The nose of the dropship was pointed almost vertically downwards, and as he looked out, the land far below was a sea of sandy brown mottled with yellow and red. As the ground crept slowly closer, swaying and rolling inside the viewport, details upon the landscape edged into focus. Ranges of sunset red mountains arced across broad flatlands like welts of scar tissue; writhing valleys and fissures appeared as hairline cracks.  
  
Ian's preparation for this assignment, though hurriedly performed during the two days since he was informed of it, was meticulous and accurate: tactical analysis of the planet, it's location and orbit, geological and atmospheric evaluations, amended personnel rosters and equipment checklists, he had reviewed them all several times over, and he had scanned over remote camera footage and sensor sweep logs of the planet's surface until they had been burned into his memory. His revision had been absolutely thorough. His own eyes, however, told him a different story. His perspective was brought sharply into focus, and as he watched the ground tumble towards him, all thoughts of petulance and dissatisfaction with command procedure dissolved, as the soldier within took hold and readied himself, focusing solely upon the task ahead.  
  
The dropship dive-bombed for another twenty thousand feet before the pilot, pulling the hull's stress tolerance to its limit, yanked the ship level. The nose of the craft bobbed upwards, pointing into the sky, and once again the transport began to shudder and groan as its underside faced the shearing descent into the lower atmosphere. After jarring, shattering seconds passed, belly thrusters screamed into life, the afterburners bellowing in unison. The dropship, now tilted backwards, inched forward as its descent slowed, and dropped to within five hundred feet of the swirling shelf of sand below, before the pilot threw a full rear burn, rapidly accelerating up to a hundred and fifty knots, and sending the craft skimming over the terrain like a meteor. The ship rolled to port, following the ridge of a rocky slope below, then as the ridge curved and cut across its path, the dropship descended into a wide basin, hugging the earth as it glided noisily overhead. As it slipped over the rim on the opposite side, the ground fell away underneath, and stretched clearly for some two kilometres ahead, bringing Fort Sunderland sharply into view.  
  
The base had been positioned with defence in mind, lying close to the centre of a wide, circular plain, some four kilometres in width, which was surrounded by a nearly continuous shelf of sandy rock, as if some giant coin had been pressed into the planet's crust. The plain itself was naked and barren, save for three tall rocky spires, which jutted from the earth like gigantic splinters. Although Fort Sunderland was one of the most recently developed confederate bases, construction had been swift. As the dropship began its approach, the outpost's several small grade barracks, as well as the vehicle plant and land based starport could be singled out from the rest of the structure. A standard defensive perimeter around the base had already been established, and Ian spotted several small groups of marines making patrol runs as the transport drew closer to the ground, each team circling the plain in a wide loop, keeping about a mile from the Command Centre. Half a dozen S.C.V.'s were visible weaving in and out of the base structure, performing construction, maintenance and repair functions but as yet, they had not engaged in resource gathering, which couldn't begin until a scouting unit had explored the nearby caverns and located at least one viable supply reservoir.   
  
The raw materials for the preliminary stages of the outpost's construction had been ferried in by military freighters and modified transports, and two brigades of around thirty men each had already been transferred to Fort Sunderland, as well as one half of the Spider Monkey brigade. This transport carrying the remainder of the Spider Monkeys, as well as a cache of medical equipment and two additional S.C.V.'s, represented what would be the last influx of troops for at least a week. Towards the centre of the base lay a cluster of eight supply depots, their enormous ventilator blades stirring the surrounding patches of light sand into soft, rolling clouds. These eight depots would have to sustain more than two hundred men and women until reinforcements arrived with fresh supplies, or until the underground resource fields had been discovered and tapped, whichever came first.   
  
The dropship rolled and banked to the left, and some fifty feet below, and around a hundred metres ahead, the starport's landing beacons flashed amber and crimson. The sound of whining hydraulics and clanking metal reverberated through the cabin as the dropship's landing struts extended, and locked into position. Crosswinds carrying burning sand and grit drove into the side of the ship, and the guttural hum of the engines rose in pitch and volume as it dragged downwards toward the circular pad. Docking thrusters murmured, then flared into furious life, cushioning the dropship's descent. Below, the starport's ground crew could be seen waiting patiently, gathering together inside the wide entrances of the pad-side hangars as they claimed a moment's reprieve from the dusty, scraping winds. The pilot slowed the flying hulk's approach, easing it into position and for a brief moment, it hung suspended above the landing circle, as if weightless, its belly thrusters carving an ear splitting, white hot insignia into the pad's surface, then with a ringing metallic crunch, the dropship touched down. The craft's massive frame lolled forward drunkenly as the gear suspension gave under it's colossal weight, and then settled back into position. After a few seconds the engines powered down, sighing as the stalwart craft drifted into a gentle slumber of fuel transfer pipes and post flight checks. Ian stared out of the viewport in the opposite side. It was early afternoon on the planet of Widow XII, nightfall wouldn't arrive for another eight hours, and even when it did, would only last for three. Outside, the Widow sun razed the landscape, the strong winds that were searing across the plains doing little to obstruct it. As fallow sand stirred and flew, scorching heat radiated from every inch of earth and rock, casting a translucent golden shimmer across the horizon.  
  
The vacuum seal around the door hatch sucked thirstily as it filled with arid, dusty air, a round red bulb blinking intermittently on the cabin ceiling above it. With a soft whirr the motorised passenger bracing bars unlocked, and retracted into the walls. Metal latches clicked open as security belts were unfastened and cast aside. Ian rose quickly to his feet and paced down the aisle to the door hatch, at the other end of the cabin. There he waited to the side, leaning against the bulkhead with one arm, eyes tilted up towards the flashing light. The eighteen marines sat silently and still. After a few seconds the light shone a constant green, and was accompanied by a loud beeping tone. While the hatch was still opening, and even before the muffling wave of heat had blasted in from outside, Ian Latimer spoke.  
  
"Squad! Disembark!"   



	3. Chapter 1: The Soldier - Part 2

COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 1:THE SOLDIER  
  
PART 2  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
  
The marines filed out of the dropship and began to assemble their gear on the flight deck, moving quickly in light combat fatigues. Each one of them wore a pair of standard issue protective goggles to keep the sand out of their eyes, but the rest of their faces, their necks and their hands caught the full rasping bombardment of flying dust and grit, the moment they stepped out of the cabin. The ground crew worked briskly around them, accessing the large wing bays on either side of the dropship's forward frame, and unloading the cargo of medical supplies into the nearby hangars. After the S.C.V. kits had been slid out onto the deck, a one-man cargo loader emerged noisily onto the landing pad from the service elevator that led down to ground level, and executed its trademark mechanical shuffle towards the two heavy crates. Although they weighed just less than half a tonne each, the loader hoisted them into the air with ease, before slowly reversing back towards the elevator. After the last marine had gone past, Ian stepped onto the hard black tarcrete. Wisps of smoke were still curling around the dropship's underside, only to be sucked into the erratic wind currents as they rose upwards. He cast a backward glance at the dropship's interior, quickly scanned his eyes around the flight deck and over the ground crew working about him, and then stepped out of the landing circle. The entire base was about two square kilometres in size, and as he peered over the wide rim of the starport, the structure of the complex unfolded around him. Through the dust and haze, the massive figures of the vehicle plant and the equipment bay stood like monoliths, set firm into the sand and rock beneath. A basic shuttle tube network had been constructed between each of the base's primary structures, and at the centre of the network lay the installation's heart and focal point, the command centre, it's domed form streaked and blurred behind the veil of flying sand. It was an imposing sight, but a welcome one all the same.  
  
Ian approached the marines, now stood straight, their gear assembled at their feet. They neither flinched nor squinted as they stood in the midst of the harsh winds, but such discipline was commonplace amongst the Confederate Anglian corps, and Ian expected nothing less. He turned his eye to his XO, Sergeant Lorraine Sheppard, who was stood at the end of the line. He had always thought highly of her, even though he had initially been sceptical of the idea of a female XO. He was a man of somewhat old-fashioned manners and principles, and these had bred in him a sexist attitude of sorts. He had made his objections clear to his superiors when she had first been assigned to the Spider Monkeys, however, two tours of duty with her had taught him humility. He had watched Sergeant Sheppard develop quickly from an unsteady, inexperienced officer into the steadfast marine who stood before him now. She was quick, naturally intuitive and watchful, and most importantly, she was held in high regard by the rest of the unit. On several occasions, she had put herself in the firing line to safeguard her men, and they trusted her implicitly for it. She was smallish in stature, deceptively so in fact, as her advanced skill in close combat had demonstrated many times. Bright lively eyes, and a rogue's grin endeared her to most who met her, and finishing both basic and specialist training in the top five percent of her class made her prime officer material. The Spider Monkeys had been her first assignment, and after only two tours, Ian found himself wondering how he had ever managed without her. He paused for a moment, as if in deep thought, his lips pursed and his narrowed eyes wandering across the pale sky, before finally turning his attention back to his unit.  
  
"Barracks."  
  
Upon the utterance of this single word, Sergeant Sheppard took one step forward and spun round to face the rest of the unit.  
  
"Squad! Report to Main Barracks for inspection and duty rotation! Dismissed!"  
  
The seventeen marines slung their gear onto their backs and double-timed into the main hangar entrance, which lead through into one of the shuttle tube junctions. Having made their way through the sparking and flashing melee of the hangar's interior, they stepped out onto the junction's main terminal. The terminal itself was compact, a narrow platform for personnel, connected to a winch and elevator assembly for moving heavier cargo on and off the base's freight shuttle.  
  
One of the network's four passenger shuttles waited ahead of them. It was the standard three sectioned tube train utilised in almost all confederate bases, long and slim in design, capable of transporting up to fifty people to any of the outpost's primary structures, utilising a network of magnetic rails and pressure tunnels to reach speeds of up to seventy knots. The shuttle emitted a low rasping hum as power was cycled through its engines. Three pairs of sliding doors opened briskly, and the marines entered, Ian stepping on board last of all. The doors hissed shut; a sharp jolt, a whirring groan, and the tube shuttle pulled away. The terminal fell behind them and the widow landscape stretched away beyond the transparent protective shell of the shuttle tube.   
  
The ride was a fair degree smoother than the dropship descent, and the view was now one from within the base, rather than passing over it. Smaller, auxiliary structures flashed past and beneath as the shuttle followed the tube network towards the centre of the base. Ian looked up. In the far distance, through the shifting haze of flying sand, his eyes traced the faint line of the outer ridge, the distant border standing like a dark band behind the sandstorm. He looked on ahead of the shuttle. On the right hand side, the outpost's barracks drew closer. The shuttle slowed as it drew into the bay, the engine tone lowering to a soft whine. The doors clicked then hissed, and as they opened, the stale recycled air, which the Confederate Terraforming Division still maintained was indistinguishable from the real thing, flushed into the shuttle. A single guard and the barracks' duty officer were stationed outside the main personnel entrance, the duty officer seated behind a small computer terminal connected to the Fort Sunderland Artificial Intelligence mainframe. The marines exited the shuttle and formed up in front of the terminal, to be added to the bases personnel roster. While the marines were being processed, Ian stepped over to Sergeant Shepperd.  
  
"Get them settled in, but make sure that they get onto the duty rota a.s.a.p."  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
"Start them off patrolling the basin, then move them onto the transport route between here and the resource objective. I want it to be familiar territory to them by tomorrow evening."  
  
"Understood. Shall I meet you at Tactical, sir?  
  
Ian nodded. He took a brief look at the marines, and then stepped back aboard the shuttle. As it pulled away, Ian sank into one of the seats. The gentle swaying of the shuttle was a strange comfort, and as he watched the seams of the shuttle tube streak past, he sagged in his seat, as if some weight was pressing down on top of him. He looked down at his hands, so old before his time. Scars and creases mapped out a life spent in soldier's boots. A life spent alone. For how many years longer would he stand at the edge, gazing into the abyss? If Ian had looked up, he might have seen the gusting wind sending sand and dirt cascading along the roof of the shuttle tube. He would, if he had looked up, have seen an ochre veil settle in front of the shuttle, as powdery sand was whipped up hundreds of feet into the air. And then, if he had looked up, he would have seen the Fort Sunderland command centre emerge through the tawny shroud, a colossal dome set like a mountain into the basin's floor. He didn't see any of this, however. As he peered further into the cracks of his own weathered skin, past old wounds, past old friends, old soldiers and a name and rank that had lost their meaning many years ago, he saw only the abyss.  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 1: The Soldier - Part 3

COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER  
  
PART 3  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
The amber sun of Widow XII penetrated the shuttle tube, leaving pools of bright orange light gleaming along its surface as it passed through. The howling of the wind could be heard even through the composite transplastic sheets that formed the structure of the tube tunnels, and at the Fort Sunderland command centre terminal, the sound of the approaching shuttle was overpowered and muffled.   
  
The automated transport decelerated, and then drew to a stop beside the main platform, where amidst the scattering of commuters, two marines and an officer stood waiting. The officer, a young man with a clean, honest look about him, stood still in front of the marines, slowly examining the shuttle for any sign of activity. For a few seconds he waited, until finally the shuttle doors, whispering open, revealed the interior.  
  
He recognised the man standing in the doorway if the middle compartment immediately, not from ever having met him face to face, but from the service photograph which had been reproduced onto a small hand-held datapad in his right hand. After hoisting his pack onto one shoulder, Commander Ian Latimer stepped down onto the slick, grey surface of the personnel platform, and as the dozen or so commuters entered the shuttle behind him, he walked up to his reception. His face was still somewhat dusty, apart from the region around his eyes where his goggles had been, and he smartly brushed away the sand and grit before turning his attention to the men in front of him.   
  
All of them were dressed the same light camouflage fatigues that he and his unit had been issued. He observed that the two marines had goggle shaped patches of paler skin around their eyes, a fair indicator of how much time had passed since they had been stationed here. Turning to the officer, he noticed a certain tiredness in his eyes, as if he had gone for too long without proper sleep, hidden behind a mask of enthusiasm. He tried to empathise. He tried to think how difficult it must have been for the population of Fort Sunderland to function in such a harsh unknown environment with almost no outside contact for three months, all the while working at an excessive rate to construct and develop the base. And then he suddenly found it odd to be giving so much thought to such a trivial element of his assignment. He was here neither to feel sorry for the bases populace nor to be a morale booster. He was here to do a job.  
  
The young officer executed a trim salute, the two marines behind following example, and presented his datapad.  
  
"Corporal James O'Hanlan reporting, sir!"  
  
Ian gestured a brief salute in reply and studied the boy closely. The accent was American, like most of the personnel here. Ian, in general, tended to hold a rather poor view of his "Yankee" cousins. Being brought up on a world colonised by Anglians had subjected him to many of the same prejudices and grudges held by his forbears, and as a consequence, he harshly viewed his American counterparts in the Confederate military as a rather boisterous, undisciplined bunch. He was not so blinded by narrow-mindedness, however, so as to forget that they were all on the same side.  
  
"You're my dogsbody, I take it?" he said dryly.  
  
Corporal O'Hanlan paused for a moment, somewhat taken aback.  
  
"Sir! I have been assigned as your aide and liaison to the Tactical Control Unit for the duration of your posting here, sir!"  
  
Ian gave a discreet sigh and then began towards the main access doors into the command centre.  
  
"Well, come on then."  
  
Corporal O'Hanlan was still holding the datapad in his outstretched hand when Ian walked around him, he then quickly withdrew it and followed closely behind, a slightly perplexed expression on his face, the two marines trailing at the back.  
  
"Do you wish to review the personnel roster and duty reports, sir?"  
  
Behind them, the tube shuttle elevated onto its magnetic cushion, before slowly accelerating onwards and out of the terminal. In front, two large reinforced Perspex doors sucked open, revealing a crimson-lit lobby terminating in a set of ceiling-height blast doors, with a small illuminated keypad set into the wall on one side.  
  
"Just give me the gist of it."  
  
As Corporal O'Hanlan began to read off the datapad, Ian tested the clearance code he had been given for base access, typing in the nine-digit figure. A steady beeping was accompanied by the room's crimson glow being exchanged for one of green. Locking mechanisms shifted audibly, and the three-foot thick barricade split down the middle, the drone of high-pressure vacuum pumps vibrating from the walls around them as each half was dragged slowly into the bulkheads to the side. Ian made his way through, with Corporal O'Hanlan and the two marines keeping pace behind.   
  
O'Hanlan continued reading as they traversed through the corridor connecting the shuttle terminal and the command centre's upper ring. To either side, passageways led off to various peripheral regions of the command centre, and above and around them system conduits and relay pipes ran parallel to the corridor, while a dim, diffuse white light filtered through the walkways' interior from long thin lamps set into the ceiling, walls and floor. After fifty metres or so, the corridor widened out into a small lobby, which acted as a junction for several other passages, and was connected to two elevator shafts.   
  
Here, there were people visible, walking briskly and moving with purpose, and even though no enemy had yet been engaged or even sighted, there was a feel of readiness and alacrity. It was a familiar feeling, and Ian took heart from it, many times in the past had he seen the effects of chaos and mayhem on the human psyche, and he felt that as long as there was discipline, there was a stronger chance for survival.   
  
The corridor that ran on directly ahead ended after a few yards, where there was a shielded elevator access, with a marine on constant guard. Another keypad was present on the wall adjacent to the access way, into which Ian entered his clearance code. By this time O'Hanlan had reached the duty report for the previous week, and was detailing the events by which a marine had been admitted to the medical bay after his respirator malfunctioned during a severe sandstorm. As the fibreglass security shield in front of the elevator hatch retracted into the wall, Ian turned to the two marines.  
  
"Dismissed. Get back onto the duty rotor."  
  
The two marines stood to attention and saluted sharply, before starting back down the passage towards the shuttle terminal. A quick beeping tone signified the arrival of the Tactical Control elevator. Ian flashed a glance at O'Hanlan.  
  
"You're with me."  
  
The elevator doors whined open, and the two of them stepped inside. This particular elevator had only two stops, their current location on the upper ring, and the T.C.U., or "TacCon", which lay thirty metres directly below them. Two buttons and an emergency panel were the only controls inside. Ian tapped the lower of the two keys, and as it flashed amber, the elevator started its descent with a jolt.   
  
"Continue, Corporal."  
  
As O'Hanlan began reading out the reports for the current week, Ian shifted his backpack and waited. Above the elevator doors, lay a small black display panel, which was currently flashing a pair of downward pointing red arrows. Seconds passed, before the elevator slowed to a stop, and bobbed upward slightly, before settling into place. The letters T.C.U. now flashed in bright blue across the display panel. The doors unlocked and retracted, and the space ahead was shrouded in almost total darkness, the light from inside the elevator shining only a few feet into the walkway. O'Hanlan reached the end of his report, and stood still, his datapad clasped behind his back.  
  
"Thank you, Corporal"  
  
Ian walked forward into the darkness, O'Hanlan tailing behind. A dozen feet or so into the corridor, a pale blue glow became visible from around a corner ahead, on the left. Following the passage round brought Ian to a dimly lit atrium enclosed at the far end by a final set of security doors.   
  
The doors were watched by two armed guards stationed directly in front, and standing behind fortified transplastic shields, each of which was attached to the wall at one end and curved round so as to form a small cubicle, with a narrow aperture at around chest height through which they had placed their firearms. This was a fairly standard defence procedure for safeguarding the TacCon unit, as anyone wishing to enter had to pass a retinal scan, fingerprint identification, and enter an authorization code, and anyone, or anything, who attempted to force access would most likely be shot to pieces.   
  
Under the watchful eye of the two sentries, Ian leant over the retinal scanning console, placing his right eye in the path of the imaging lens. A bright green strobe light sent a series of pulses directly into his retina, relaying the information back in a matter of nanoseconds, and verifying with a green signal light the identity of one Commander Ian Patrick Latimer. As Corporal O'Hanlan stepped up for his retinal scan, Ian moved over to the fingerprint console, which was essentially a clear rectangle of glass set into the wall. Ian pressed his right thumb onto the glass plate, automatically triggering the scanner. A thin band of yellow light travelled from top to bottom along the underside of the glass, reading and almost instantly matching Ian's thumbprint from out of a database of more than four million registry entries. A conformation beep and a second green light from above the plate, and Ian moved over to the keypad, the two guards poised to flick off the safety catches on their weapons at the first sign of a threat. A separate authorization code was required to gain entry to the T.C.U., one consisting of eleven figures, and which had been delivered to Ian shortly after he had been assigned to Fort Sunderland, a mere two days previously, but he keyed in the chain of digits as if he had done it a thousand times before. A third green light, a slow beeping tone and the words "CODE CONFIMED" scrolling across the keypad's L.E.D. display signified that he had completed the criteria for gaining access, and as O'Hanlan moved over to the keypad from the fingerprint scanner, Ian idly contemplated the number of times he was going to have to repeat this exact ritual during his assignment here.   
  
The tone beeping slowly for a second time indicated that O'Hanlan had entered his access code, and the two of them stepped forward, stopping just short of the sentries. Ian looked over the security doors. Designed to withstand a tremendous amount of punishment before buckling, they were a formidable sight. A sequence of mechanical locks was undone from within the doors, cracking and whining, before the air was disturbed by a thick electric hum as the doors gave way into the walls. With O'Hanlan following on behind, Ian walked inside.  
  
The Fort Sunderland T.C.U. was a large room roughly circularly shaped, and with a high ceiling. The entire room was gently sloped downwards towards the north side, which was on the left as Ian entered, and was tiered from the back to the front, with curved rows of consoles and terminals running along each tier. Along the front of the T.C.U. on the north side was positioned the TacCon's large, primary view screen, which was encompassed by five smaller auxiliary screens, and a number of datastream monitors suspended close to the ceiling. The room itself was essentially black and dark, the primary light sources being the view screens at the front and sides, which sent out a hazy blush of electric cyan and jade as tactical displays, terrain maps, and video relays were cast across them.   
  
Thin illuminated panels were set into the walls, floor and handrails at certain points in the T.C.U., acting as an indicator of the base's combat status depending on their colour, as well as directing personnel safely around the room. Countless diode lights flickered and pulsed from the terminals that interfaced with the bases A.I. mainframe.   
  
More workstations were arranged along the sides of the room, and two separate second level bays at the southeast and southwest of the T.C.U., which had been constructed as large alcoves in the rear wall accessible via stairwells, contained the Communication Satellite and Strategic Weapons sections respectively. As yet, neither of these sections was fully functional, with only a few operators and technicians working in the ComSat section. The rest of the T.C.U. however was a hive of activity, as tactical staff processed information from sensor nets around and outside of the base, as well as coordinating marine patrols.   
  
The T.C.U., along with the Central Administration Unit, which was also located in the Command Centre, and the Starport's Flight Traffic Control Unit, formed Fort Sunderland's three primary management centres. Whereas the other two units dealt with base resources, base maintenance and repair, and personnel management in the case of the C.A.U., and the coordination of stellar traffic by the F.T.C.U., the TacCon was solely responsible for directing all military aspects of the base, be it personnel, craft or facility. Perhaps a dozen conversations were being conducted at once, between operators and marine patrols, technical crews, or even directly to the A.I. mainframe, however, a strong chain of command and rigid protocol meant that the TacCon could efficiently coordinate any military activity under the greatest of pressure.  
  
Ian turned to the right and made his way round to the rear of the T.C.U. Passing another armed guard next to the wall; he glanced over the TacCon, spotting another one stationed on the opposite side. He then followed a walkway which ran up to the rearward section, and then curved round towards the middle. Close to the back, behind the tiered rows of terminal in the centre of the room was a small platform, on top of which was a raised seat, with a specialized terminal attached to it. This was the chair of the Tactical Commander, from which he could direct the entire armed forces of the base. Because of the sloped nature of the room, the seat afforded a view of every section of the TacCon in front, with the ComSat and Strategic Weapons sections behind and above him. Currently, there was someone sitting in it. A middle-aged man of stocky build and with a somewhat unkempt beard turned his attention away from his console and looked up at Ian.  
  
"Commander Latimer?" he said after a short pause.   
  
Ian nodded soberly.  
  
"Yes."   
  
The man hoisted himself out of his seat and brought himself up to his full height, at which he was still only at eye-level with Ian's throat.  
  
"Deputy Administrator Gil Kirkland.", He announced, stretching out his hand.   
  
Ian looked down and reluctantly put his hand forward, at which point Kirkland clasped hold of it and began to shake it vigorously.   
  
"It's good to finally meet you." He looked at the commander's chair, and then back towards Ian.  
  
"Uh, I guess this is yours now.", he said with a grin. Kirkland's attempts to break the ice apparently lost on him, Ian simply took a step forward and examined the chair.  
  
"Very well. I hereby formally relieve you."  
  
Kirkland nodded and sustained a weak smile, apparently determined to be affable.  
"So, how was your trip?" he asked.  
  
" Please fill me in on what's been happening."  
  
Startled by Ian's frankness, Kirkland smile receded.  
  
"Well, It's all in the logs if - "  
  
"I'd rather not have to go through it all."   
  
Ian stared expressionlessly at Kirkland, who stood frozen for a second, and then nodded feebly.  
  
"Uh, okay. Well, I've been here since the start. I guess, two months ago. The first couple of weeks went about as well as could be expected, I guess, considering we were building from scratch, instead of having towed the primaries in. Real pain in the ass..."  
  
"It was necessary.", Ian interrupted.  
  
"Yeah, I know." said Kirkland with a wry smile on his face, "Too many ships required to do it, and we're too close to the border to chance that they wouldn't be spotted. Plus no long range transmissions to call for assistance in case they're intercepted, yeah I get it." Ian noticed a hint of bitterness in Kirkland's voice, but left it alone.  
  
"Anyway, once the skeleton was built, I was assigned as temporary Tac Commander until someone could be sent to replace me."  
  
Kirkland brought his hand up and ran his fingers through the tangles in his beard.  
"And that was about five weeks ago, since then I've just been following the manual, so to speak. The Adjutant had the standard tactical procedures outlined, and the objectives from Confederate Command had already been factored in, so I didn't really have to do all that much. I kept track of the marine companies that were sent here, and then they got their orders from the Adjutant. You know, patrol routes, guard and escort, just regular stuff. I was told not to consider the base's objectives in any way. So, I guess that's your job."  
  
"What about the rest of the Tactical Command Staff?" asked Ian.  
  
"For the moment, I think it's just you," Kirkland nodded to the side. "and O'Hanlan over there, of course. Your tactical XO and the other officers are supposed to be coming in about a fortnight, don't ask me why. But anyway, you should be okay without them for now; there are no hostiles to speak of. Intel Reports confirm that much."  
  
Ian remained staring.  
  
"Guess that's about it." Said Kirkland  
  
He seemed visibly drained by the entire conversation, and shifted his feet uneasily. Ian pulled his pack off, and turning round, held it out to O'Hanlan.  
  
"Take this to my quarters."  
  
O'Hanlan took hold of the pack in both hands and walked round the rear of the T.C.U. to a small steel doorway, which Ian assumed led to the Tactical Command officers' quarters. Ian stepped forward and turned the commander's chair round towards him, before looking back up towards Kirkland, who seemed as though he was expecting something.   
  
"Thank you." said Ian.  
  
Kirkland nodded, a faint smile on his face once again, but this time a little more sincere.  
  
"Have fun…" he said, and walked down towards the main access on the west side.   
  
Ian eased himself into the Commander's chair. This was only the second time in his long career that he had been given a full tactical command, but the instincts which had served him when in command of a brigade translated well when commanding an entire force.   
  
He activated the console interface on the chair's right arm, and checked the personnel roster. All thirty-four marines of the 141st "Spider Monkey" brigade had now arrived and had been registered, and when added to those from the other two companies that had already been stationed here, the 267th "Jackknifes" and the 172nd "Tommy's Curse", totalled a hundred and twenty-one marines that were available for duty. Although the vehicle plant had been made operational, the absence of mineral and metallic ore had meant that the facility's construction templates hadn't yet been brought on-line. However, examining the outpost's supply records, Ian found that a complement of six vulture attack bikes had been ferried in along with the starting materials and resources, their riders having been brought in with the "Jackknifes". It wasn't much, but for the time being, it was going to have to do. Suddenly the display on his console monitor was shrunk down to one corner, and filling the remainder of the screen was the unmistakable digital representation of the Confederate A.I. Mainframe, the Adjutant. The face of a human female android stared up at Ian with emotionless, ruby coloured eyes.  
  
"Good afternoon commander Latimer. I trust that your journey was comfortable?"  
  
Ian had never been overly fond of the confederate A.I., computers were one thing, but a computer that talked back spelled out nothing but trouble in Ian's mind.  
  
"What is it?" asked Ian, determined to make this "interface" as brief as possible.  
  
"This is a formal welcome from the Fort Sunderland Adjutant. Do you wish to be given a tutorial in any of the mainframe's systems, terminal controls or safety protoco- "  
  
"No."  
  
"Do you wish to be given a computerized guided tour of the command centre and its adjoining faciliti-"  
  
"No."  
  
"Have you any questions at this time?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Thank you. Please activate the nearest mainframe terminal at any time if you require assistance."  
  
Ian slowly shook his head and leant forward, and upon glancing upwards, realized that apart from the odd operator who was still engaged in communication, almost every member of the Tactical staff was standing still, and looking at Ian expectantly. He hadn't been looking forward to this. Generally speaking, he had found it was customary when assuming command of an important post, to say a few words, inspirational or otherwise, to the officers and soldiers present who would be following your orders. Ian was not a convincing public orator, to say the least.  
  
"Hm. Ummm, just…" He sighed wearily. "Just get on with it."  
  
The two dozen-odd operators and technicians who had perhaps been hoping for some uplifting speech about the strength and tenacity of the human spirit, or who more likely were expecting some disjointed, hazy account of their new commander's academy days, along with some corny sound bite intended to lift the mood, didn't get even that. Slowly, and slightly hesitantly, they resumed their work, while Ian cradled his head in one hand, massaging his temple.   
  
Over on the west side of the T.C.U. the access doors began to open. A series of quick beeps brought his attention back to his chair console. Pressing the acknowledge button brought up the pallid visage of the Adjutant once again.  
  
"Commander, you have an incoming call from Chief Administrator Rigg. Shall I put her through?"  
  
Ian acknowledged and the stern yet gracious face of Bethany Rigg blinked onto the monitor. As Chief Administrator of the Fort Sunderland Confederate outpost, she was effectively responsible for governing the base, and apart from anything to do with the resident military forces or their current objectives, had the final word on any matter. The two of them had met previously, they were not old friends by any means, but they were acquainted.  
  
"Ian! How are you? How was your trip?"  
  
Ian rolled his eyes to the side, by now quite determined to avoid answering that question. The Chief Administrator tilted her head back until she was almost looking down her nose at Ian.  
  
"We could do with a meeting. Come and find my office, I can fit you in, in about one hour. We'll get you up to speed."  
  
"Fine." replied Ian.  
  
Chief Administrator Rigg gave a sharp nod and a faint smile, before her face vanished from the monitor. As he resumed his examination of the base's supply status, he became aware of someone standing behind him. Swivelling his chair round, he found Sgt. Sheppard standing to attention.  
  
"Go on." Said Ian.  
  
"The rest of the brigade have been registered, and they've all been divided up into the regular squads for duty, sir. Squads one, two and three have been moved onto patrol, squad four will be on in about an hour, as soon as the next group comes in." she reported.  
  
"Good."  
  
Ian began to turn around to study the main viewscreen, before catching sight of a slightly disturbed expression on Sgt. Sheppard's face.  
  
"Something else?"  
  
"Yes sir. I took the liberty of browsing through the inventory section of the barracks' mainframe terminal, and, well…I'm afraid that we're rather under-stocked, sir."  
  
"Under-stocked?"  
  
Ian turned quickly back to his console, bringing up the equipment menu, and then the barracks inventory sub-menu. He came very close to actually looking surprised.  
  
"Bloody hell."  
  
Sgt. Sheppard leant forward to examine the console and confirm the information she had found.  
  
"Sir, this base only has enough CMC-300's to outfit six marines, and the number of Impaler rifles we've got..."  
  
"Yes, so I see. What are the rest of them using?" asked Ian  
  
"C-19g's, sir."  
  
Ian frowned. He had come to know the C-19g "Ripper" exceedingly well during his third tour of duty as a confederate marine. It seemed a lifetime ago, but the memories were still fresh, the memory of the "Ripper" especially so. A long, thick barrel and a tendency to jam with alarming frequency characterized the C-19g, as well as earning it the additional nickname of the "Lead Pipe", from the number of times that marines had to resort to using it like one. This, and the fact that it held less than half the measured stopping power of the C-14 "Impaler", had led many a confederate soldier to wonder how such an inadequate weapon could have been approved for use in the field. Ian was also very much aware that, not being the most reliable weapon in the confederate armoury, the few Rippers that were currently available weren't going to last much longer in this environment without modification. He stared coldly at the screen in front of him.  
  
"Alright. How did it happen?"   
  
"From what the supply officer told me, sir," she explained, "there was an error of some sort when the foundation supplies were catalogued, it seems unbelievable, I know, sir, but that's what he said. For the past two months they've been using a rotary system to distribute those few firearms that they do have, with only those marines on patrol, or guard duty being issued with them. From what he said, sand erosion has rendered about a dozen of them more or less useless, and that there are currently only sixty-two properly functioning firearms in the inventory. As for protective wear, they've been making do with goggles and respirators, which is fine for basic survival, but if we engage the enemy," Sergeant Sheppard shook her head, "Sir, they haven't even got any protective body armour, just combat fatigues."  
  
"Oh bloody hell." Ian repeated. "Well, it looks like Mrs. Rigg and I have something to discuss after all."  



	5. Chapter 1: The Soldier - Part 4

COUNTEPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER  
  
PART 4  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
  
  
Ian slowly rose to his feet, and, shaking his head, turned to Sgt. Sheppard.  
  
"I saw those marines on patrol when were flying in. I noticed they were only in fatigues…thought they were just keeping lightweight."  
  
Sgt. Sheppard stood still, awaiting her commander's orders.  
  
"Alright. Let's see," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "Let's get back to the upper ring. We're going to have to modify those C-19's. I want you to find someone in the armoury, or else in engineering, who can sort something out," Ian glanced down at his watch, "I'm going to see if I can have that meeting with Administrator Rigg a little early."  
  
"Understood." As Sgt. Sheppard made her way out, Ian turned round to find Lance Corporal O'Hanlan stationed next to one of the handrails at the rear of the room. Now that Ian had noticed him, he marched forward purposefully, and stood to attention.   
  
"Why wasn't I told about the supply shortage?" asked Ian firmly.  
  
"I was told that you were aware of the current shortage, sir."   
  
"By whom."  
  
"Chief Administrator Rigg, sir."  
  
Ian was resolved to get to the bottom of this, and looking O'Hanlan up and down, concluded that he wasn't terribly keen on the thought of being followed around all day.  
  
"Stand your post, Lance Corporal."  
  
O'Hanlan saluted a second time, and then returned to his station at the back of the T.C.U., presumably for whenever Ian next required him. Giving him no further thought, Ian left TacCon, passing through the security lobby, and round the corner to join Sgt. Sheppard boarding the elevator. As the doors closed and the two of them rode up, Sgt. Sheppard turned towards Ian.  
  
"Sir, permission to speak freely?" she asked.  
  
"Granted."  
  
"Sir, I've never heard of such a serious error happening while cataloguing a base's foundation supplies, especially weapons and ammunition; and with the number of checks they're supposed to do, to forget almost all of the CMC's, I just think..."  
  
"It has happened in the past." Said Ian, "Not often, and someone usually gets shot when it does, but you're right. Something is going on."  
  
Upon reaching the upper ring, the two of them walked back to the junction lobby, at which point Sgt. Sheppard continued back towards the shuttle terminal. Ian walked over to one end of the lobby, where there was a black panel set into the wall, with the words "Please touch to activate" illumined across it. Pressing the panel once brought up a menu, while the digital voice of the base's mainframe asked "Which service do you require?"  
  
"Map. Command Centre. C.A.U." stated Ian.  
  
Immediately, schematics of the command centre's middle and upper rings spun into view, with a route mapped out from the terminal at which Ian was stood to the C.A.U. Following the directions, he used one of the adjacent corridors to travel eastwards for about a hundred metres, and then a steep set of escalators brought him down into the middle ring section. The middle ring, being the area of the command centre most used by non-military personnel, was conceived more with comfort in mind, and although the general structure and layout was similar to other sectors of the command centre, the rooms and corridors tended to be more spacious and with stronger lighting, creating a much less claustrophobic environment.   
  
There was a fair amount of activity in this section, as administrative staff and technicians went about their duties. An assistance desk lay ahead on the right hand side, formed as a large elevated enclosure against the wall, behind which sat a small faced, middle-aged woman who was typing intently into her computer terminal. Ian walked up to the desk and waited, noticing a small row of potted plants occupying one of the shelves on the wall behind. The woman finished her line of typing, and turned to face Ian with a lively expression.  
  
"Yes, how can I help you?"  
  
"Main access to the C.A.U. Please."  
  
The woman pointed with a pencil in her right hand to a large corridor behind Ian.  
  
"Carry on to the end, then turn right. Do you have clearance?" she asked.  
  
Ian nodded briefly, and then started down into the corridor. Turning right at the passage's end brought him to another security lobby, similar to the one preceding the T.C.U., but in this instance, with only one armed guard, stationed in plain view. The same three identification tests were present, and Ian proceeded quickly through them. Barely waiting for the doors to have properly opened, Ian entered into the administrative heart of Fort Sunderland.   
  
The C.A.U. was divided into two main sections, the primary control centre, a separate secured chamber, which functioned in a similar way to the TacCon, providing a means of communicating with work crews, coordinating construction and repairs and managing the two hundred-odd non-military personnel that worked at the base, and the executive offices, where the high ranking administrators resided.   
  
The administrators themselves had private offices, but their subordinates occupied a communal bureau which, having been linked up to the communications network, functioned as a secondary control unit, managing less vital aspects of the base's management, as well as relaying messages between the control centre and the ranking administrators. The bureau was clearly visible, as the wall between it and the main entrance hall of the C.A.U. consisted mainly of several transparent fibreglass panels, through which the interior could be seen. Inside was a good indication of the base's current status, as assistant administration staff worked busily at desks and terminals in a relentless flurry of paperwork and intercom calls.   
  
Walking past, Ian came to another desk, occupied, according to the small plaque fastened onto the desk's surface, by the "Principal Managerial Assistant - Gregory Mckinney". Ian briefly pondered in how many other ways the word "secretary" could be phrased. The man sitting behind the desk watched Ian as he approached, and inspected him over the top of his reading glasses.  
  
"Yes, may I help you?"  
  
"Chief Administrator Rigg's office." said Ian, examining the hallway behind.  
  
"And you are?"  
  
Ian looked back at the secretary.  
  
"Commander Latimer."  
  
"Right," he said, checking his monitor, "She's not expecting you for another three quarters of an hour or so, would you like to wait?"  
  
"No. I'd like to see her now," said Ian, tersely. The secretary took his glasses off and began to wipe them over with a small handkerchief. "I'm sorry," he began, "but you'll have to come back later. I'm afraid she's quite busy at the moment."  
  
Perhaps he wasn't aware, thought Ian, that he was speaking to the base's tactical commander. Or perhaps he did but had been given instructions not to let anyone into Rigg's office outside of schedule. Whatever the case, he didn't have time for it.  
  
Ian stepped forward slowly. Whilst perhaps not being particularly adept at dealing with people on a social level, years of training and commanding the Confederacy's finest, as well as a natural ability had made him very skilled at putting people under pressure. Most people are confident that they can give someone a menacing stare, or speak with a threatening tone, and they probably could. Ian, however, took it several steps beyond the realm of simple intimidation. This time, all he had to do was look at him. It took the secretary only a second to look upwards, and then another to realize that arguing further with the man standing in front of him might possibly be the worst choice of his entire career, if not his entire life.   
  
After a short pause, the secretary tentatively reached out to his terminal, activating the intercom to Chief Administrator Rigg's office.  
  
"Uh, Administrator Rigg, Commander Latimer is here to see you."  
  
"Alright, send him in." came the reply.  
  
Without waiting, Ian walked past the secretary's desk, into the wide passageway behind, which accommodated the five ranking administrators' private offices. Carrying on to the end, Ian came to a large plasteel door, with several plaques affixed to its front, detailing Bethany Rigg's full name and station, as well as a long list of abbreviated qualifications. A rasping buzzer sounded from above the door, and the door unlocked with a loud clack, opening inward slightly. Chief Administrator Rigg's voice beckoned from inside.  
  
"Ian, come on in!"  
  
Pushing the door open and walking in onto a carpeted floor, Ian found himself in a somewhat informal office. A good deal more informal than the offices of some of the other Chief Administrators that he had been in, which had been furnished either with old fashioned wooden fittings, ornamental candelabras and authentic works of art, or else had mimicked the austere interior of the tactical division, containing added mainframe terminals and orthopaedic chairs, placed against the naked, sterile surroundings of the bare walls and floor of the command centre's frame.   
  
Chief Administrator Rigg, however, had chosen to fit out her office as if it were in a conventional office block in some terrestrial city. A fairly large desk, a couple of overgrown ferns, and shelves carrying a plethora of technical and procedural encyclopaedia presented an image of both comfort and functionality. As Ian walked in, he found Aministrator Rigg perched on a chair, having kicked off her shoes, attempting to retrieve a hefty almanac from one of the higher shelves on her sidewall.  
  
"Ian, hang on. I'll be with you in just a sec."  
  
Ian paused, looking up. Just entering middle age, Bethany Rigg was still in healthy shape. Long auburn hair tied in a bun, and a rosy complexion gave her the impression of some children's tale fairy godmother, but her generally warm demeanour could be cast off in an instant, and her stringent attitudes towards problem solving and management were both well known and respected.  
  
"Do you need help?" asked Ian. Bethany slid the tome out from under a stack of paperwork, and dropped it onto a chair below.  
  
"Nope, I got it."   
  
Stepping down onto the ground, she walked up to Ian and shook his hand.  
  
"Ian," she said, smiling "It's good to see you again. You're a little earlier than I expected though, is anything wrong?"  
  
"We need to talk." said Ian solemnly.  
  
"Alright." Bethany walked back around her desk, settled into her seat, and began to tidy some loose papers on her desk.  
  
"How was the TacCon, everything okay?" she asked.  
  
"Fine." Replied Ian. "I relieved Kirkland, and took some details from him."  
  
Bethany nodded. "Uh-huh, Gil's a good man. He's been working pretty far afield these past few weeks - a big step from admin to tactical command, but I hear he's done okay. I don't know if he told you, but your command staff is currently being reorganised, they'll be here in about a fortnight."  
  
"He told me."  
  
Bethany looked up.  
  
"Please Ian, sit down."  
  
Ian took a step forward but remained standing. Bethany mocked a frown, tilting her head slightly.  
  
"Ian, you don't have to be such an old goat, you know. It's not actually one of the job requirements, I'm sure it's not."  
  
Ian began to speak, a strait-laced expression on his face.  
  
"Administrator Rigg,"  
  
"Beth, please, Ian, for God's sake, we do know each other. just call me Beth."  
  
After a short pause, Ian abruptly reached over to the interface console on the Administrator's desktop. Swivelling it round, he keyed in a series of commands, bringing up the barracks' inventory menu, before rotating the console back around towards Bethany. Slightly taken aback, she flicked open a pair of reading glasses and put them on, before examining the screen, and then looking back up to meet Ian's expectant gaze. She shook her head, as if still unaware of what was troubling him. Looking into his impassive eyes, her puzzled expression suddenly changed to one of astonishment.   
  
"You...didn't know, did you?" she asked, apparently genuinely surprised. Ian leaned further over onto Bethany's desk and peered through her glasses.  
  
"Didn't know what?" he began, "Didn't know that this base hasn't enough supplies to properly equip even one tenth of the already meagre number of marines stationed here? No, I didn't bloody know."  
  
Bethany leant back in her chair, and took off her glasses, shaking her head in disbelief.   
  
"I thought that they would have told you. I thought that you'd be bringing the rest of it along with you, whatever equipment it was that you needed."  
  
"What made you think that?"   
  
"Common sense. I was aware of the shortage in the armoury, when I was told you were coming with the rest of your brigade, I just assumed. What was your dropship's cargo?"  
  
"An S.C.V." said Ian coldly.  
  
"Dammit. I'm sorry, I should have checked your cargo in the starport's logbooks when you arrived but things have been so hectic around here."  
  
He turned slowly to look behind him, and then sat down in one of the office's chairs, leaning forward with his hand over his mouth.  
  
" How did it happen?" he asked though his fingers.  
  
"Cataloguing error, I was told, although I never believed it. " Said Bethany. "They make mistakes all the time, and just cover it up. It's just the way it is."  
  
"What about the next supply drop?" asked Ian, "There's another dropship run in ten days isn't there?"  
  
Bethany shook her head.  
  
"Food, water, medical supplies, a little tech, but that's all; nothing military."   
  
Ian ran the back of his thumb over his bottom lip, staring vacantly at the fastening bolts on the desk in front of him.  
  
"You do realise that if we were to be attacked in force at this very moment, we'd be wiped out to the last man?" he stated grimly.  
  
"Ian, I am not a military expert, God knows that's true, but even if the soldiers you have now were all fully equipped, we still couldn't expect to hold up against a massed attack, and you know it, but that's not the point. The whole point of doing this the way we have is so they don't know that we're here."  
  
"Yes, I'm aware of that." Said Ian sullenly, before getting up from his chair and walking towards the back of the office.   
  
Against the rear wall stood a tall display cabinet, inside of which were several framed photographs of Bethany and presumably her family and friends. Ian glanced casually from one photo to the next, before catching his dim reflection in the glass pane of the cabinet door.   
  
Bethany let out a deep breath, and set her glasses down on her desk.  
  
"Ian, talk to me. What is it?"  
  
Ian stared at Bethany's reflection in the glass. There was more going on than just the slip-up with the equipment. He had a bad feeling in his gut, and although he was not the sort of person to be ruled by his instincts, he had learnt to be mindful of them. Despite his intuitions, however, he decided discretion to be the wiser course, at least for the moment.  
  
"It's nothing."  
  
"Look, you've seen the same intelligence reports I have, right?" asked Bethany, "Zero enemy activity, external ComSat confirms that we're clear all the way to the border."  
  
Ian nodded resignedly.  
  
"Apparently so."  
  
Bethany ran a thin forefinger through a wayward curl of hair and paused thoughtfully.  
  
" Ian, the Confederacy has so far spent a hundred and thirty billion credits on this installation. Believe me, you don't make investments like that without considering protection. They may get it wrong every now and then, we both know that, but they always come through in the end. The equipment's on it's way, I'm sure it is, but until then, I guess you're just going to have to make do. Like the rest of us."  
  
Ian turned around to face her.   
  
"Well, in any case, I've got a job to do. And in light of the current supply situation, I see no alternative but to move ahead of schedule. We're going to start scouting the caverns tomorrow."  
  
"Looks like we've both got a busy day ahead of us, then. Take a little friendly advice?" asked Bethany.  
  
"Of course."  
  
"I know it's still early in the day, but you're going to learn pretty quickly around here that sleep is a commodity. I imagine you're used to that by now, but this is probably the last day you'll have for a while when you don't have a lot to do, so…take my advice. Go to sleep, and tell your XO to do the same. You're going to need it."  
  
Ian acknowledged with a nod, and made his way out.   
  
Walking back to the T.C.U., Ian attempted to make sense of his situation. His meeting with Bethany had provided few answers, as well as raising additional questions. The fact that he was still awaiting his command staff was not unusual, the severity of enemy attacks further along the border had put a strain on available manpower, and delays in transit while assignments were shifted and personnel were re-routed to fill the gaps were not uncommon, even though a fortnight was pushing it a little.   
  
The matter of the supply shortage, on the other hand, was rather more serious, and unusual. Considering the relatively high priority of the Fort Sunderland installation, as well as its attached objective, to explain away the military equipment shortage to a procedural error became nothing short of ridiculous, and yet it was an excuse which could be easily backed up with evidence, doctored or otherwise, if the need arose. And so assuming that it wasn't a mistake but rather done deliberately, and with forethought, what would be the purpose, wondered Ian. What would be the purpose of covertly building a base within arm's length of the enemy border, with such speed as to challenge the current standing Confederacy construction records, and then fail to properly equip it's military with barely more than the most fundamental requirements?  
  
Up to a certain point, supply shortages throughout the border regions due to the enemy's harrying attacks, could explain the lack of equipment, but only up to a point. No CMC gear, the almost archaic selection of weaponry in the base's armoury, and the continuing lack of any stellar craft whatsoever to provide orbital cover, these things were all past that point. For one reason or another, supplies and military resources were being kept away from Fort Sunderland. And with a communications blackout in effect, Ian had no way of contacting his commanding officers to find out why.   
  
Whatever the reason was, he still had only one choice open to him. The same choice he had always had, and taken. To follow orders. Blind faith in your superiors may have been enough for Bethany, thought Ian, but as a soldier, he wasn't allowed such an indulgence. He had orders, and faith didn't come into it. He was a confederate marine, and his loyalty could not be questioned, but the moment he started to believe in the Confederacy as some benevolent force, which was safeguarding all of it's citizens, would be the moment when he would have to ignore all of the past acts of horror and despotism that the Confederacy had committed, and he wasn't willing to do that. They weren't perfect, not by a long shot, but in Ian's mind they were still the best chance that they had, the best chance for peace, the best chance for unity amongst the colonies, and perhaps the only chance against the great enemy that threatened to consume the Terran civilisation, and forever stamp it out of existence. There were no such things as faith, or hope, not for Ian. For him, there were only orders.   
  
Entering the T.C.U., Ian gave a quick glance over the display screens, and then walked around to the command chair. O'Hanlan stood in the same spot where Ian had left him, stood with feet shoulder length apart, his hands behind his back. Upon seeing Ian, he stepped forward, awaiting orders. Ian activated his command console, and sent a batch of classified ComSat survey and personnel files to the memory bank of the terminal in his room. He had decided to take Bethany's advice, although he felt that it would be prudent to keep any relevant tactical data for the next day fresh in his memory, before he retired for the night. After deactivating his chair console, he turned to his aide.  
  
"I'm going to my quarters, I won't be needing you further today. Dismissed."  
  
O'Hanlan saluted, and then exited the T.C.U. to return to his secondary duties. Ian had been quietly impressed with O'Hanlan's sense of discipline and formality. Whether it was his true manner, or whether he had been warned that a fussy, toffee-nosed Brit was taking over command, and had been coached to act according, Ian hadn't bothered to fathom, but regardless, he found himself thinking well of the boy, and wondered if that apparent discipline would hold up under duress. Ian himself had never been assigned as an aide to a superior officer, and while he wasn't entirely convinced of the usefulness of a tactical commander's aide, who possessed little command authority, and was essentially there to run errands, he was aware that many younger officers saw it as a valuable opportunity to glean command experience, no matter how insubstantial. He wondered briefly to himself what O'Hanlan would learn before this assignment was over.  
  
Stepping down off the command platform, Ian walked through into the dim corridor at the rear of the T.C.U. Passing by the doors to the other officers' rooms, he came to the end of the passage. Another security keypad beside the door to his quarters accepted his access code, and as he walked in, he noticed that there was no nameplate on the front of his door. Perhaps for Kirkland's benefit, Ian thought to himself.   
  
The room itself was clean, and small but with enough space to move comfortably. A separate bathroom led off the west side of the quarters, and the bedroom off the east. A round glass table sat in the centre of the room with a computer terminal, and an intercom view-screen was set into the northern wall. His pack lay perched on one of the chairs around the table.   
  
After unpacking his gear and clothing, Ian sat at the table, and activated his terminal, opening the files that he had transferred from the TacCon. It was now late in the afternoon, perhaps another four hours until nightfall. Having put aside any thoughts regarding his current predicament, over the next hour Ian read through the tactical data surrounding the resource objective. Like most brigade commanders, he had been trained to prepare for any eventuality, and adapting his approach to accommodate the substandard equipment that his brigade would be using was chief amongst these preparations.   
  
After finishing, he made up a rough itinerary for the next day. Meeting with the Commanders of the other two brigades was going to have to be first. Ideally, he would have gotten it out of the way today, but Ian felt that the day had already exacted a heavy toll, and that it was best left until tomorrow. Even though the day had seen no rounds of ammunition spent, and no soldiers lose their lives, Ian felt a strange weariness, which he had never felt on the battlefield, although he had experienced it before. A feeling of emptiness sucked at him from deep inside, and his mind drew back to the yawning gulf, which lay within him, of which no one knew but himself. It was not disillusionment, or if it was, then it wasn't the whole of it. Nor was it simply loneliness, or apathy. Whatever it was, it was greater than the sum of its parts, and it gnawed at him relentlessly. He had felt it many times in the recent past, coming seemingly from nowhere. Where before there was certainty and rigid discipline, now doubt crept through him, yet he pushed it firmly down, as had done in the past, until he was himself once more. The feeling was still there, albeit hidden, however, and most likely could not be resolved by simply suppressing it. Though now that it was suppressed, Ian felt somewhat more settled about the day ahead.  
  
Once again, an odd feeling, an instinct of dread was there, left behind when his other feelings had been pressed down. Deciding that nothing further could be done today, instincts or no, Ian got up and walked over to his room's viewscreen. Activating it, he opened a link to the adjutant, whose face promptly flickered into view.  
  
"Locate Sergeant Lorraine Sheppard"  
  
The Adjutant's eyes closed, while around its head, dull flashes of blue light illuminated the computer-generated background, a dark network of cables and gears.  
  
"Working. The internal surveillance network has located Sergeant Sheppard in the engineering bay. Do you wish her to be contacted?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Working."  
  
Communication terminals were placed in almost every section of every building in Fort Sunderland, and together with the arrangement of internal security cameras, which could be accessed at any time by the Adjutant, gave it the ability to find and communicate with a given person in almost any part of the base. Ian waited while the Adjutant contacted Sheppard by means of a localised announcement.  
  
"Sergeant Sheppard has been contacted and directed to the nearest communications terminal. Please hold if you require further assistance."  
  
Ian deactivated the adjutant at his terminal, and after waiting for a few seconds, an incoming message was indicated. Accepting the call, Sgt. Sheppard appeared, while in the background, one of the engineering workshops was in its usual state of commotion.  
  
"Report."   
  
"Sir, I've found someone in engineering who's got a few ideas, but he's tied up with another assignment. They're having some sort of trouble with the shuttle tubes around one of the supply depots. He…"  
  
"Put him on" interrupted Ian.  
  
Sgt. Sheppard glanced around, before disappearing off to the left. A few seconds later, a rather mousy looking engineer with short, greasy hair, and oil streaked across his forehead stepped into view, wiping his hands with a strip of cloth. He stared inquisitively back at Ian.  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
"Name and rank."  
  
"Engineer 2nd class Kith Sajan sir."  
  
"I want you to transfer your effort to the assignment that Sergeant Sheppard has just outlined to you."  
  
"Sir, I can get it done for you, but I've got a job order to work through. I can get onto it in two days when everything else is out of the wa-"  
  
"I want it done by 0800 tomorrow." Said Ian unyieldingly.  
  
A stunned expression flashed across Sajan's face.  
  
"Sir, a job like that'll take at least a couple of days. We'd have to bring the armed marines off duty in groups to come in and get their weapons adjusted, we couldn't do them all at once. And there's, well, I don't know how many C-19's we're talking about here, but I'm telling you, we're not gonna be able to get it done by tomorrow."  
  
Ian had no desire to debate the logistics of how it would be possible to accomplish this task; all he knew was that he needed it done.  
  
"Consider this a direct order from the Tactical Commander. I want those weapons properly outfitted for use by 0800 hours tomorrow morning. Lives could well be at stake. Yours included. Do whatever you have to do to make it happen, but get it done. Understand?"  
  
Sajan stood paused for a moment, squinting through the communications terminal, before nodding grudgingly. Wiping his brow, he then walked off, while Sgt. Sheppard stepped back into view.  
  
"Sir, 0800 tomorrow?"  
  
"I've changed the schedule, I think it's best to move as soon as possible."  
  
Sheppard nodded in agreement.  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
"Have the men ready by 0700 hours. If all goes well, we should be able to move by 0900."  
  
"Understood, sir."  
  
"All right, that's it for today. Mrs. Rigg advises both of us taking an early night."  
  
"Sounds like good advice, sir."  
  
"Yes well, feel free to disregard it, if you wish, but I think I'm going to take it." Said Ian, feeling like an old relic.  
  
"Yes sir. Sir?"  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"What if Sajan can't finish by tomorrow?  
  
Ian sighed.  
  
"Well, he should have done at least some of them by then; that'll be better than nothing. But he will finish, I believe I made the importance of the assignment clear to him. If those weapons start to lock up because of the sand, and we run into trouble…It'll be messy, to say the least."  
  
"Yes sir." Agreed Sergeant Sheppard, grimly.  
  
"In any case," Ian attempted to find an encouraging word or two.  
  
"We'll see what happens."  
  
"Yes, sir. Sir, if it's alright, I thought I might pass by the barracks and check in on the men, see how they're getting on."  
  
Although Ian had spent more time in command of the Spider Monkeys than of any other brigade, even more time than he himself had spent serving in any brigade, he knew them only sparsely. He had rarely spent the quality of time with them as Sergeant Sheppard had done; to him they were merely thirty-four men and women whose sole function was to follow orders. In his mind, any interaction beyond that was redundant. At the same time, however, he appreciated the value of Sheppard's interaction with them, keeping them alert and confident, and making sure that any problems within the unit were discovered and dealt with quickly. In many ways, she was his link to the Spider Monkeys, acting as counsellor and confidant to them where he could not.  
  
"Yes, yes of course. Good night, Sergeant."  
  
"Good night, sir."  
  
Lorraine Sheppard's face blinked out, and was replaced by the revolving logo of the Confederacy Communication Service, glowing dimly against the black lustre of the viewscreen. After undressing into his bedclothes, just a thin vest and a loose pair of tracksuit bottoms, he walked through into the bathroom. Splashing cold water onto his face and neck, Ian stared into the mirror in front of him. It was a worn face, and lean, his dark chestnut hair, always kept short, formed wet spikes as he ran his hands through it. He rested his elbows on the basin and leant forward, touching foreheads with his reflection. For a few seconds he stood there, hunched over, and as he stood, he tried to tie his thoughts together.   
  
Too much feeling, he thought to himself.   
  
There was a time, perhaps not so long ago, when he was a glorious soldier, not in the sense of being a hero, but that he was content. Simply content with the role he had to play. Although life had never been easy, it had at least been straightforward, and he had lived through it logically, and dispassionately, as if he were some wondrous robot in a man's body, showing no weakness, no remorse, and no regret. But now, today, there was too much feeling. Of what kind, he wasn't sure, and what it meant, he didn't know, but it was too much.   
  
Ian got up and wiped his face, and then after turning off the lights in his room, he lay down onto his bed, the covers underneath him, and closed his eyes.   
  
  



	6. Chapter 1: The Soldier - Part 5

COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER  
  
PART 5  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
The night passed slowly for Ian. As Fort Sunderland worked and repaired and constructed around him, past the fall of dry darkness, and then through into the bright, blistering morning, Ian's sleep was troubled, broken by dreams and hazy visions.  
  
Even as he lay silent and still, as he had trained himself to do over so many years, his slumbering mind was led this way and that by ghostly reflections. As his thoughts twisted, it seemed to him within his sleep, as though he were a tiny point of light, potent, and yet invisible. And as he flew inside his mind, he saw before him a tremendous expanse of deepest black, and past the expanse lay a dull grey sheen, as if some prolific wall had been cast down in hoary granite. As he passed through the void, it appeared that the wall began to fracture, and split; hairline fissures burst through into gaping tears, while fire and flaming magma seeped and spurted through, collecting in great flying rivers of molten destruction. As they drew towards him, he could feel the dry rasping heat moving ever closer, ever closer, until the rivers were all about him, and he was engulfed.  
  
The next morning, Ian awoke simply and sharply to the darkness of his room, with little recollection of his night's dreaming. It was 0528 hours, and without an alarm, Ian had woken himself at his desired time with minutes to spare. A useful trick, and Ian had many of them. Switching on the lights, and walking through into the bathroom, he went briskly through his morning routine, and showered quickly before getting dressed into a clean set of camouflage fatigues. For a few minutes, he scanned quickly through the terrain maps and survey reports once more, before moving to the side of his room, and activating the view screen. Ian sent a call directly through to Sgt. Sheppard's quarters, which was promptly answered, and it was plain that she had been up at least as long as Ian, having dressed, and prepared herself for the day ahead.  
  
"Good morning, sir."   
  
Ian caught a familiar light in her eyes, of which he had never tired. Her staunch enthusiasm had always been invaluable, and he felt that it would be needed today, especially.  
  
"Sergeant." Replied Ian. "I want you to get back to engineering and check on Sajan's progress, I'm going to meet with the other platoon commanders in the officer's mess. What time are you taking the men in to breakfast?"  
  
"0640, sir."  
  
"Alright, report back to me when you've eaten. I'll be in the TacCon."  
  
"Yes, sir." She acknowledged.  
  
Ian nodded, and then ended the call, before accessing the internal communications menu. He didn't know if the two commanders would be in their quarters or not, and didn't have time to personally find and talk to each of them, and so Ian instead opted to send an identical voice message to each of their quarters, requesting that they meet him in the officer's mess hall at 0610. Attaching a high priority label to each message meant that if they weren't accessed within a minute of being sent, the Adjutant would automatically locate and alert each of the recipients, before forwarding the message to the communications terminal nearest to them. After deactivating the view screen, and then turning off the room's lights, Ian left his quarters. It was six o'clock.  
  
He travelled along the corridor, and then into the TacCon, to find it as he had left it the night before, bristling with activity. The night shift had taken over, and after having tirelessly worked through the dark hours, what few there were, and on into the long morning, were now awaiting being relieved by the day watch. Corporal O'Hanlan was absent, and would be for a while longer, not being due to resume his duties as tactical liaison until 0700.   
  
Ian accessed his command terminal, and opened the tactical schedule. They weren't due to start searching the caverns for another three days, until the route between them and the base had been properly scouted and secured. Accessing the schedule, Ian moved the date forward to nine o'clock of the present day. The tactical staff would be notified of the change by the Adjutant, and Ian resolved to go through it with them after he returned. Pausing only briefly to scan over the main view screens, he made his way out, and into the elevator, and arrived at the upper ring. The officer's mess was located a short distance away from the TacCon elevator; Ian travelled back towards the lobby, and then doubled back along one of the other passageways, towards the centre of the upper ring. The corridor was narrow and short, terminating in a thickset plasteel door. A keypad adjacent to the door was the only security, and was present more to ensure privacy rather than any genuine security purposes. Ian entered his code and walked inside.  
  
In a short while, some half a kilometre away in the main barracks, the three companies of marines would be sitting down for their first meal of the day. Whereas the mess hall in the barracks was a large communal gathering place, where marines from different platoons and brigades could circulate and form some semblance of a social life, the officer's mess was a much smaller, more sober affair. The room itself was medium sized and longish, well lit, and with a long, slender steel table placed down the middle. At the moment, it was empty, and would most likely be so most of the time, with there being only six military officers currently present, a commander and an XO from each of the three marine companies. As Fort Sunderland was reinforced in the weeks to come, more companies of larger size would be transferred in; at least that was the plan. As it was, despite repair and maintenance crews and S.C.V.'s working around the clock, marines making continuous patrol runs, and despite the sheer level of activity within the base, somehow, in some way, to Ian, Fort Sunderland had the feel of some wayward, deserted shanty town.  
  
He made his way over to the far end of the mess to a smaller table fixed to the wall, on which were set plates and glasses, together with a coffee dispenser, and the usual selection of food that was given to the officers, dried fruits, cereals, bread and some odd smelling, reddish cooked meat which Ian left alone. There was also an opened box of nutrition sticks, one of the standard field rations of the confederate soldier. Ian poured himself a cup of coffee, and took what looked like a desiccated apple, as well as a couple of ration sticks, and then sat down at the table.   
  
His first breakfast at Fort Sunderland was unremarkable, to say the least. Previous to arriving on Widow XII, it had been only a week since the Spider Monkeys' station on Choman V had prematurely ended, and a week was not time enough to forget the taste of confederate military food. Ian had learnt to almost appreciate the stale, cardboard-like flavour of the ration sticks, and they went down easily enough, but the dried apple was like chewing on a ball of leather. A good meal might have been had if he'd had an hour or two to work at it, but after a couple of failed attempts at stripping it with his teeth, Ian threw it into the waste compacter. And then finally came the coffee. To Ian, who had always taken more note of objects and sensations, rather than people and emotions, few things brought to mind the Confederacy more than the tepid contents of the plastic cup in his right hand. He had never drunk an excessive amount of it, perhaps a cup each day, perhaps less, although he knew of officers who practically lived on it. The sharp scent and bitter taste were distinct, and in some way reassuringly familiar, as Ian had never tasted any coffee other than that issued by confederate drinks dispensers and ration packs. The Confederate Division for Health and Nutrition had made some half-hearted attempt to pass its coffee off as some scientifically developed concoction, designed to clear the head and relieve pain. Most likely it did little more than ordinary coffee, and juvenile stories passed around mess halls of stomach cramps and projectile vomiting betrayed some lack of faith on the part of the confederate military forces. As Ian took a slow draught from his cup, the door opened, and a man walked inside.  
  
Commander Gary Murello was a man of fair height and thick build, and of fair to middling years. His face carried a wary expression, and was crowned with thin, sand coloured hair, with a ragged band of grey reaching around to his temples. The 267th "Jackknifes" had been his command for just over four years, and were about as anonymous as a confederate platoon could get. Before the war they had been acting mainly as a backup unit, used to reinforce and protect rather than to tackle any objectives themselves. Since the start of the conflict, however, after which every available company had become vital, they had seen through their fair share of engagements. Their somewhat modest success rate had meant that in the first few dreadful months of the conflict, when there was a relatively large number of available units, they had still been kept away from high priority assignments, but now, as the war raged on and marine companies were slowly being whittled down in number and size, Confederate Command could no longer afford the luxury of being choosy. The 267th had survived, and were in good condition, and more importantly, were closest at hand when Fort Sunderland was approved, and so for the fist time in their history, the Jackknifes were made first choice for an assignment. For two months now, they had patrolled and mapped and scouted the basin, and the surrounding areas in preparation of the coming offensive. So it came to pass more by fate, than perhaps by choice or merit that Commander Murello walked into the officer's mess that morning.  
Murello walked along the opposite side of the table to Ian, to the side of the room and poured himself a cup of coffee. Taking a sip, he then sat down opposite Ian.  
  
"Commander Latimer."  
  
Ian nodded even as Murello continued speaking.  
  
"Well, of course it's a pleasure to finally meet you and all, but first things first. I've been hearing rumours…that you didn't bring any extra weapons or armour when you arrived. Is-"  
  
"We didn't bring any weapons or armour at all." interrupted Ian with a dour expression.  
  
Murello raised an eyebrow, and then leant forward over his coffee.  
  
"Beg your pardon?"  
  
"We were informed that we were to be equipped on arrival." Said Ian. "We brought standard survival gear. No armament, no armour. We weren't aware of any supply shortage. I only found about it yesterday."  
  
Murello slowly leant back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  
  
"We've been holding out these past two months with the same armoury that was shipped in when the base was built." he said. "We've had four supply runs since then, and not one of them has carried any military equipment of any kind." Murello folded his arms and stared at Ian with somewhat accusing eyes. "The last dropship that came in relayed a message to us that you would be coming, along with your unit, and guaranteed with one hundred percent certainty that you'd be bringing the necessary supplies with you."  
  
Ian looked at Murello through furrowed brows.   
  
"When was that?" he asked.  
  
"That? That was four days ago, why?"  
  
"No reason." replied Ian, briefly shaking his head, "I was just wondering."  
  
Ian was now aware that whoever had relayed the message aboard the last supply dropship had known about his transfer to Fort Sunderland before he did.  
  
"In any case," said Ian, "you're not the only one who's disappointed. But regardless of supplies, or lack thereof, we have an objective to accomplish. The C-19's are being custom adapted as we speak, and that should get a few extra days use out of them; hopefully enough to last until the proper supplies do finally make it through."  
  
Murello gave a quiet sigh, understandably sceptical after two months of waiting for that very thing.  
  
"But all things considered, I don't see that we have any other option than to get started straight away."  
  
"As in right now?"  
  
Ian nodded.  
  
"Yeah, I figured as much." Said Murello.  
  
At that moment, the door opened once again, as Commander Ingo Deist walked into the officers' mess. A short, slight figure of a man, of either Latin or perhaps Central American descent, none could say for sure, Deist was nevertheless an imposing character. Piercing russet coloured eyes set deep into his skull, and coarse, pebbly skin gave him the look of some timeless statue, whilst his jet-black hair shone like polished marble under the bright lights of the ceiling panels. Murello looked across and upwards at the man with whom, for the last two months, he had shared responsibility for safeguarding the base.  
  
"Bad news…" began Murello.  
  
"Save it. Think I can guess." Said Deist, with a voice like dead wood being sawn. He looked across the table at Ian, and held him in a cool, calculating gaze, as if he were measuring him up.  
  
"Latimer."  
  
Ian gave a nod.  
  
"Deist."  
  
Although Ian had never met Ingo Deist, he had heard of him, as well as his unit, the 172nd "Tommy's Curse", which Deist had led since its formation six years ago. The origin of the unit's peculiar name was the subject of some debate between those within the Marine Corps who had heard of them, and rumour had it that only Deist himself, as well as the few surviving original members of the 172nd knew for sure. The "Tommy's Curse" was noteworthy for reasons besides its name, however, and the unit's endeavours both before the war and during, had earned them a reputation as an enigmatic, secretive bunch, expert at surprise attacks and infiltration.  
  
Ian had never cared much for rumour or fanciful stories, but he recognised that the 172nd was a sound unit, and took reassurance from their presence. As for Deist, Ian trusted him about as much as he would trust any other Confederate Marine commander, although there was a certain quality to the man that he found somehow, unsettling. Ian put the thought aside.  
  
"Have the rippers been done yet?" Asked Deist.  
  
"Hey, how did you…" Began Murello.  
  
"I had Stocker look into doing the same thing about a week ago," said Deist.  
  
Ian recognised the name of Deist's XO, Aaron Stocker.  
  
"He's been keeping tabs on engineering since then; he told me what was going on last night."   
  
Deist looked back towards Ian with shadowed eyes.  
  
"If commander Latimer hadn't arrived, I was going to have ordered it done myself."  
  
Ian knew that Deist was well aware that Confederate regulations stipulated that no one but the base's official Tactical Commander could order the refitting of any weapons that were in full use on the base premises. Perhaps Deist was aggrieved that an administrator had been selected as acting Tactical Commander in the early phases of Fort Sunderland's construction, who hadn't possessed the necessary authority to approve any weapons modifications. Perhaps he was simply fractious after two months of waiting in isolation, and wanted to take control of the situation. Ian got the feeling, however, that once again, Deist was somehow testing him. He had no doubt that Deist's words were genuine, and that if he hadn't arrived, Deist would have gone ahead and ordered the weapons refitting, infringing Confederate military procedure in the process. While Ian was opposed to any breach of protocol, he could, however, understand the necessity of such an action.   
  
"Well, I suppose it's lucky I did arrive." Said Ian.  
  
Deist gave a faint grin, and circled around to sit at the head of the table.  
  
"As for the C-19's, I'm still waiting for the report from my XO, but regardless, the primary scouting team will head out at 0900 this morning. I'll have the rosters sent out to you. That's it."  
  
Deist nodded, and Murello acknowledged with another swig of coffee. Ian tossed his own empty cup into the waste compacter, and walked out.  
  
As Ian made his way back to the T.C.U., he began to mentally reorganise some of the existing marine squads into scouting units. By the time he walked into the TacCon, he had come up with the numbers for the scouting parties into the caverns in the northeast.   
  
Marine companies tended to vary greatly in size, and were often divided up into pre-organised squads. In companies the size of those present at the base, with roughly thirty men in each, squads of around eight men were generally used.  
  
Checking the personnel rosters at his console, he assigned three of the four squads from each company into three scouting parties, the fourth squad being kept back for perimeter patrol and security. Ian decided that two teams would be best for the first scout party; so that once the caverns had been reached, more ground could hopefully be covered on the first day. Both the Spider Monkeys and the Jackknifes would take the first run, The Tommy's Curse the second run, and then back to the Spider Monkeys, and then the Jackknifes and so on, until the resources were found. In addition, Ian assigned one vulture hover bike to each scouting party, which would act as escort and quick response, if needed, and he put the other two in reserve.  
There would be some overlap in the schedule, but with each party spending twelve hours scouting, the marines should have enough rest between shifts. Ian sent copies of the unit lists and the new rota to both Murello's and Deist's quarters, again labelling them as high priority, and then submitted them into the tactical database.  
  
Ian was aware now that the tactical staff had received the change in schedule, and were now implementing the necessary changes. Ian stood up, with both hands on the illuminated rail in front, and addressed them.  
  
"You'll have been notified of the change by now."  
  
The staff paused, and gave Ian their attention. This was no 'thanks for the warm welcome, I'm glad to be here' speech, the sort of thing that, as the staff had witnessed, wasn't exactly Ian's forte; this was business, and as such, Ian got the point across clearly and sharply.  
  
"You must all be aware of the supply shortage currently affecting the base's armoury. What little luxury of time we had before, is now gone. Those weapons we have are already being rendered unusable by the weather conditions, and with no way of knowing when we're going to be re-supplied, finding those resources has become even more critical. Therefore I have decided to move on with the objective ahead of the given schedule. I've put together three scouting teams from the existing marine companies. You'll find the lists for them in the database, as well as a new duty rota. Team one sets out at nine this morning."  
  
The tactical staff stood silently. Ian peered around the TacCon, taking in every individual face.  
  
"That is all."  
  
The staff promptly returned to their assignments, while Ian sat slowly back down, and after a moment of watching his staff busily going about their work, he turned back to his console, and began studying the route to the caverns.  
  
At 0700 corporal O'Hanlan arrived from his morning duties. Striding up towards Ian, he stood to attention.  
  
"At ease." Said Ian.  
  
O'Hanlan relaxed his stance and stood with his arms behind his back. Ian turned his chair slightly, looking sidelong at the young marine.  
  
"The schedule's changed. We're going to start scouting today. I'll be taking the first party in myself, you're to remain here and act as squad co-ordinator."  
  
O'Hanlan's eyes widened. This was no small task that Ian had laid upon him. In the absence of the Tactical Commander, another officer could be called upon to function as the squad co-ordinator, effectively simulating the Commander's role, albeit in a much smaller capacity. While Ian would be issuing orders from the field, it would be O'Hanlan's role to keep track of each individual squad, assist in navigation and communication, and act as the primary link between the scouting teams and the base. O'Hanlan managed admirably to restrain a grin.  
  
"Yes sir!"  
  
Ian nodded his head towards the main tactical platform in the centre of the T.C.U.  
"You'd better get yourself up to speed on the system protocols. I don't want any slip-ups."  
  
"Understood sir."  
  
O'Hanlan saluted, then headed down to one of the terminals in the middle of the TacCon, and began refreshing himself on the communication and tracking interfaces.  
Ian couldn't help but feel confident in the boy, but while most people might have smiled at seeing the marine embrace his first dizzying taste of command with the passion of a child, Ian simply sighed, and looked back at his terminal.  
  
A few minutes passed, when Ian's musing was interrupted by the beep of his console, as the adjutant appeared on the miniature screen.  
  
"Commander, you have an incoming call from Sergeant Lorraine Sheppard. Shall I put her through?"  
  
Ian accepted the call, half expecting the worst possible news. There were six squads of marines who needed arming, plus four officers; that made fifty-two. Every single functioning ripper on the base would have to be allocated to the scouting party, leaving the base more or less defenceless, save for a clutch of handguns and some old semi-automatic rifles that were being kept at the discretion of some of the marines. Those left behind on guard and patrol duty would therefore be mostly unarmed. And yet, without knowing when the base was going to be re-supplied, there was simply no other option.  
  
Sgt. Sheppard appeared, apparently at the same terminal in engineering that she had used the previous night.  
  
"Go on Sergeant."  
  
"Sir, I've just spoken to engineer Sajan. He's behind schedule, but only just. He's managed to adjust forty-seven out of the fifty-two C-19's, the rest will be done in the next hour."  
  
Ian let out a soft sigh of relief.  
  
"All right, that'll do." he nodded to himself. "It's manageable. Have him contact the barracks at 0820, I want to talk to him myself."  
  
Ian tapped a series of commands into his console.  
  
"I've made up the lists for the scouting teams. Bring squads one, two an three onto scout duty; squad four will remain behind on guard and base patrol. I'm sending the lists to your terminal, check them over before you go."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Oh, and I want you to get in touch with a Sergeant Gleason, he's the officer in charge of the vulture bike riders. We're going to need them as part of the scouting teams, I think. Send him a copy of the scouting rota, make sure he has the first rider ready to escort us by 0830."  
  
"Understood, sir."  
  
"Fine, I'll see you there at 0800" said Ian, glancing at his watch.  
  
Sgt. Sheppard responded with a nod, and Ian deactivated the link. Around him, as the rising sun was captured by the gleaming display screens, the tactical staff continued to work and prepare.  



	7. Chapter 1: The Soldier - Part 6

COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER  
  
PART 6  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
Over the next three quarters of an hour, Ian sat scrutinizing the tactical readouts on his console, and on the display screens in front of him. Away in the barracks, the marines were preparing themselves for the day's duty, while those who had been on patrol and guard duty through the night were nearing the end of their shift.  
  
At 0750 Ian deactivated his chair console and walked down towards O'Hanlan, who was working through one of the tracking sensor exercises on one of the workstations. O'Hanlan caught sight of him and promptly stood up.  
  
"I'm heading over to the barracks," said Ian, still eyeing the tactical screens in front, "Are you ready?"   
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
There was an unsettled edge about the marine, but that was understandable. Ian gestured towards the primary tracking console on the left forward side of the TacCon.  
  
"Alright, get settled in. I'll contact you before we head out."  
  
O'Hanlan acknowledged and headed over to assume his new post as squad co-ordinator, while Ian exited the T.C.U. and made his way up towards the shuttle terminal.  
  
Marines along the way saluted, but most of the civilians he passed still didn't recognise him. The shuttle over to the barracks was half full, and Ian sat in the midst of a dozen conversations. As he looked through the windows out into the landscape, the sun drove relentlessly down. The burning sands and cracked earth lay still and calm; there was no wind to be seen, not even the slightest breeze. This was a blessing however, as "breezes" on this world tended to heat rather than cool, as well as throw sand through the air at 140 mph.   
  
The shuttle pulled into the barrack terminal and Ian stepped down amongst a handful of others, whilst commuters waiting on the platform boarded. Walking past the guard and through the main entrance, Ian found himself in an entry foyer, with three other exits. Each of the large sets of retracting doors was marked clearly on its front; one lead to the mess hall and recreation-rooms, the second went through into the marines' quarters, which took up more than one third of the entire structure. The last set of doors was labelled 'Secondary Armoury / Exit Bay'. As the doors of this last exit made way in front of him, Ian walked through.   
  
The layout of the typical Confederate barracks was designed to be as efficient as possible, with several access ways linking each of the building's sections, so that in the event of a sudden attack, any marines in their quarters or in the mess hall could get through to the armoury or the exit bay in half a minute or less.  
  
As Ian walked through the corridor, it curved around a left corner and extended on for another thirty feet, widening out at the end into another small foyer, this time with two doors labelled 'Secondary Armoury' and 'Exit Bay'.  
  
The Secondary Armoury in the barracks was where the base's primary complement of infantry weaponry and armour was kept, essentially a large, secured access storage hold, with several distribution points around its edge, connecting to a ring shaped corridor running around the outside. This enabled several groups of marines to pick up their gear at the same time; however, getting hold of their gear directly from the armoury was usually only done in emergency situations. About twenty metres below the armoury, and located on the outer edge of the barracks' structure was the exit bay, from where the marines could access the outside environment. One of the armoury's distribution points extended down into the exit bay, and it was from this point that marines, such as those going onto patrol or scout duty, typically picked up their equipment.  
  
Ian entered through the second door and headed down towards the exit bay. Two sets of escalators took him down almost to ground level, and in front was a large doorway, some ten feet high, and twenty across. The door had already been retracted upwards into the bulkhead, and Ian walked in.  
  
The exit bay was situated almost at ground level, and was a huge, fairly well lit chamber, perhaps fifty feet square and with a high ceiling. A narrow balcony ran around the edge, about halfway up the sides of the bay. The metal floor was scuffed and scorched in places, with yellow and black warning strips lining the edges and reaching up the walls. Over to one side was the distribution point, designed as a large, rounded alcove in the east wall. A system of conveyor belts carried requisitioned firearms and armour from the Main Armoury down to the exit bay. The distribution alcove was colour coded with a dull orange border on the wall running around its edge, and over on the north side of the bay, opposite to where Ian had entered, the region in front of the main bay exit was bathed in an intermittent red glow as signal lights pulsed above the frame of the massive doorway which lead to the outside.  
  
Inside, towards the centre of the bay, waited three squads of Ian's brigade, and three from the Jackknifes. Sgt. Sheppard walked forward to meet him, giving a quick salute; Ian nodded and looked over to the Spider Monkeys who had lined up to attention.  
  
"At ease."  
  
The marines broke up and went back to preparing their gear. Each one would be carrying a light pack with emergency rations, a water flask and field medical kit, as well as some basic tools for field salvage. To stay in touch with one another, and the base, each member of the scouting party would be wearing a communications headset; just a small earpiece with a thin microphone, and a fine transmitter wire which looped around the back of the head. One marine from each company would be carrying a signal booster, to allow the headsets' signals to reach all the way back to the base, as well as cut through any interference from the weather. Each marine had also been issued with a pair of standard protective goggles, which were also tinted to shield their eyes from the sun, and carried a respirator mask; a small device similar in size and shape to an anti-pollution mask, which would enable the marines to breathe in the event of a sandstorm.  
  
In addition to their standard equipment, one marine from each of the six squads present would be carrying a P.F.M. or Portable Fluxgate Magnetometer. The P.F.M. was a smallish piece of equipment, consisting of a rounded box-like unit with a handle on top, and a long silver coloured cylinder protruding from the front. Used for soil and rock analysis, P.F.M.'s could be readjusted to send out a short-range detection pulse, and would be of extreme use in locating the mineral resources, once inside the caverns. The sensors in an S.C.V. would have been capable of the same function, and with greater efficiency, but had to be ruled out, as external ComSat surveys had shown the underground tunnels to be too narrow for anything larger than man-sized to travel through.  
  
Ian drew his attention back to Sgt. Sheppard.  
  
"How are they doing?" he asked.  
  
"They're fine, sir. They're eager to get to work." She replied with a wry smile.  
  
"Yes, I think we all are."   
  
Commander Murello walked over from the other side of the bay where his unit and his XO, Sergeant Noah Davies, were also preparing their gear.  
  
"So, what's the word on those rippers?" asked Murello.  
  
"There should be enough; however many there are should be ready to bring down any time now," said Ian, nodding his head towards the distribution alcove. "Engineering's going to contact us."  
  
"You know," said Murello, "there're still those six CMC suits, as well as a few Impalers. I take it those are staying in the armoury?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"For consistency's sake, or..."  
  
Ian nodded.  
  
"There's that," He began, "and there's the fact that marines seeing their commanding officers wearing powered armour and carrying Impaler rifles, while they're equipped with spitguns and fatigues, won't exactly be in the most optimistic frame of mind."  
  
Murello nodded in agreement and then looked over towards the closed main exit gate.  
"Well, it's a good day for it, anyway. It's a little hotter than yesterday, but we should do okay."  
  
"Let's hope so." Said Ian.  
  
Murello turned and walked back to his unit, while Ian looked over towards the west side of the exit bay. Various lockers and supply cabinet acted as dispensers for the basic field tools and supplies that the marines would be taking with them. Ian turned back to Sgt. Sheppard.  
  
"Have you packed your gear?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"All right, go and help the men finish up; I'll get my pack together."  
  
Ian moved over to the side, picked up a rucksack, and went about stowing the necessary gear inside. As he took out a prepared flask of water from one of the lockers, he glanced over at the Jackknifes behind him. A few of them laughed boisterously and capered amongst their squad-mates, only to be scolded by Sgt. Davies. To them, this was old hat. They had been out on dozens of patrols, and knew the nearby territory well. The Spider Monkeys on the other hand, though still new to the territory, had more experience as a unit in general, in both combat and non-combat situations; Ian figured that the two units should be able to work well together, although his somewhat conceited attitude towards any unit which he hadn't personally worked with led him to believe that somewhere along the line, the Spider Monkeys would be picking up the slack.  
  
As he slung a light supply belt around his waist, Ian looked over to see Sgt. Sheppard in her element. In some small, hidden way he envied her. The men looked at her with trusting eyes, the same eyes that regarded him with little more than grim, browbeaten obedience. She worked a magic with the men and women of the brigade, a knowing grin here, a supportive nudge in the shoulder there, sharing the odd crude joke with one of the younger members of the unit; things far beyond the realm of Ian's expertise, and yet he was able to find some minor comfort on it, to know that his men were at ease and ready for the coming task. As he watched, he felt a quiet confidence settle into him. He was with his unit, and the feeling of dread from the day before seemed but a distant memory.  
  
Ian finished packing, and swung his rucksack up onto his back, jostling it to test its weight. All in all he was carrying less than twenty pounds of gear; not much but he would probably feel every kilo of it by the end of the day. Suddenly, a voice rang out across the bay.  
  
"Commander Latimer!"  
  
Ian looked over to see one of the on-duty technicians jogging over.  
  
"Commander Latimer, sir, there's a call for you, from engineering."  
  
The technician led Ian over to the east wall of the exit bay, where Engineer Sajan's face flickered on a communications terminal.  
  
"What's your report?" asked Ian.  
  
"That's fifty-two!" announced Sajan triumphantly. "I'm not gonna tell you what I had to pull to get this done, but there it is. They've been shuttled over to the secondary armoury. Should be on their way down to you at any moment."  
  
Ian turned to his right, and stared at the distribution alcove a few feet away. After a few seconds, the conveyor belts whirred into life. Each of the five belts was a thin, vertically looped segmented steel band, which extended up a long diagonal shaft to the armoury. Hooked pegs were fastened at two feet intervals, on which weaponry or armour could be hung.  
  
After half a minute or so, the first ripper appeared, swaying slightly as one of the belts ferried it down. More rippers appeared one by one, until each belt was carrying them. The conveyors froze automatically as the rifles reached the end of the belts; before they were to loop round, back up towards the armoury. Ian walked over to one of them, lifted one of the rifles off its peg, and then walked back to the com terminal.  
"Okay," said Sajan "as you can see, we've really had to do some work on them."  
  
Ian looked over towards the marines behind him.  
  
"Everybody gather round."  
  
The marines formed into a bunched semi-circle around Ian, with Murello, Sheppard and Davies at the front, and looked on as Sajan outlined the new modifications.  
  
"Right, the main casing had to be refitted; we used a heated plastic sealant to sand-proof the chamber and the barrel. After the sealant had set, the casing didn't fit anymore, so we had to re-mould 'em; they're a little bulkier now, and we didn't have time to thoroughly test-fire all of 'em, but they should be okay. But there is one thing; the sealant we used is chemically layered, it's heat-proof from the outside only, which means that the sun won't affect it, but if you overheat the chamber from firing, the sealant might crack. If it does, you're guaranteed to lock the weapon up."  
  
Murello glanced around at the Jackknife squads.  
  
"Everybody get that?"  
  
The marines acknowledged and Ian turned back to face Sajan's image.  
  
"All right, good work."  
  
Sajan gave a tired, unassuming smile, the ordeal of working through the night only just starting to catch up with him.  
  
"Hm yeah, glad to help." He said with a sigh.  
  
The terminal blinked off, and Ian motioned towards the conveyor belts.  
  
"Everybody pick up your weapons."  
  
The marines filed into queues in front of the five belts and began picking up their rifles. The belts whined into motion once again as the weapons were taken off, and continued feeding the rippers down towards the marines until all fifty-two present had been armed.  
  
While the marines checked over their weapons and got used to the new weight, Ian walked over to the supply lockers and picked up a communications headset. Fixing it in place, he tugged the microphone, placing it in front of his mouth, and activated the transmitter.  
  
"TacCon from Commander Latimer. O'Hanlan, do you read me?"  
  
O'Hanlan's voice crackled into his right ear.  
  
"Yes sir, reading you loud and clear"  
  
"Report."  
  
"Sir, the TacCon is on ready alert, all tracking systems are active, all channels are open."  
  
"Stand by Corporal, we're getting ready to move out."  
  
Ian inspected his rifle. It had been a long time since he had held a ripper, but even through the modified casing, it still retained its familiar weight and feel. His earpiece crackled once again.  
  
"Commander Latimer from TacCon. Do you copy?"  
  
"Go ahead O'Hanlan,"   
  
"Sir, Sgt. Gleason just contacted the T.C.U. wishing to speak with you."  
  
"Put him through onto this line." Said Ian.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Ian's earpiece fell silent, and he winced as a sudden jarring racket blared through the line.  
  
"Commander Latimer?" shouted a voice over what sounded like the roar of an engine.  
  
"Yes, go ahead."  
  
"Sir, this is Sergeant Gleason. Looks like I'll be your escort for today; we're just circling around from the vehicle plant."  
  
"How many of you are there?" asked Ian.  
  
"Two; me and Corporal Pryce. We decided to double up to match your squads."  
  
"Very well."  
  
"Sir, we'll be at the barracks momentarily, what's your status?"  
  
Ian took a quick look around him.  
  
"We're pretty much all set here," said Ian, "We were going to start at nine, but I can't see any reason to wait. We'll start out now; we'll meet you when we get out there."  
  
"Copy that, Gleason out."  
  
Ian walked over to Sgt. Sheppard, who was adjusting the sight on her ripper.  
  
"How is it?" Asked Ian.  
  
"Think I've got it sir, most of the others were all right."  
  
Ian tightened his pack's straps across his chest, and clasped his rifle with both hands.  
  
"Form the men up. It's time to go."  
  
While Sgt. Sheppard ordered the men into their squads, Ian moved over to the other side of the bay, where Murello was stood watching. He gestured over Ian's shoulder towards Sgt. Sheppard and the Spider Monkeys.  
  
"We heading out now? It's only 0830."  
  
"Yes, no sense in waiting. I thought I'd move the schedule forward again."  
  
"Hunh, that's getting to be a habit with you, isn't it? Said Murello with a grin.  
  
Ian moved to the front of the exit bay and stood beneath the main exit in the blinking red glow of the signal lights. Behind him, the Jackknifes had formed up into squads, and along with the three squads of the Spider Monkeys, stood waiting, fully equipped and armed.  
  
Ian turned and peered to the rear of the bay, to a control booth, where the main exit controls were housed, and a technician stood waiting. Ian gave a signal, and the air rang through with a blaring klaxon as the technician activated the retraction controls. The signal lights changed to flash muted amber, and in front, the bay door's locking bars clanked and hummed, as they were pulled free. The massive gate roared as it was dragged upwards. Extending twenty feet past the door was a dimly lit access tunnel, which sloped gently down to ground level. The tunnel came to an end at a second, final door, which led through to the outside, and opened outwards and downwards like an enormous mailbox. Making sure that everyone else had put theirs on; Ian strapped on his goggles and gave a second signal.   
  
As he moved forward into the tunnel, Sgt. Sheppard led the Spider Monkeys behind, with Murello, Davies and the Jackknifes bringing up the rear. The klaxon screamed out again as they moved in, and the signal lights, both above the fist door, and inside the tunnel changed again, flashing a brilliant green. As the final door drew noisily open, Ian tugged at his microphone.  
  
"TacCon from Commander Latimer"  
  
"Go ahead, sir."  
  
"Start watching Corporal. We're heading out."  
  
Sunlight flooded into the tunnel as the door lowered, and a sudden, sweltering heat passed over them. Without a word, Commander Latimer led the scouting party out of the barracks and onto the scorched earth of the Widow desert.  
  
  



	8. Chapter 1: The Soldier - Part 7

  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER  
  
PART 7  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
As the scouting party walked onto the baking ground, the base stretched away behind them. Ian looked back; shuttle tubes high overhead glinted in the morning sun, and the dry air was disturbed by the soft thrumming of power generators. Almost two kilometres in front of them lay the edge of the wide basin in which Fort Sunderland had been built. The plain around them slowly cooked in the sunlight, the distant ridge shimmering behind a surging curtain of heat.  
  
The growing noise of approaching engines caught Ian's ear, and he looked over towards the west side of the base. Two vulture bikes were wheeling around the base's perimeter, heading towards the marines. As they drew up, the rumbling whine of their hover engines cut through the air, and sunlight gleamed off their forward canopies. The bikes skidded to a stop atop a cushion of air, sand and dirt swirling underneath, and one of the riders pulled his goggles up onto his forehead and saluted.  
  
"Sergeant Bill Gleason reporting for escort duty, sir, and Corporal Fargas Pryce," he said, nodding over to the second rider.  
  
Ian returned the salute and looked the two of them over. Both were wearing lighter versions of the standard Vulture riders' leathers, on account of the temperature, with rolled sleeves, and coloured beige to reflect the heat. Their bikes were mostly unmodified, each sporting twin auto-cannons, fixed on either side of the front canopy. Gleason himself was a rugged looking man, and seemed as though he was generally more at home hovering a foot and a half off the ground than walking on top of it.  
  
Ian searched over towards the ridge.   
  
"Should take us about twenty minutes or so to get to the cliffs; can you get your bikes up to the top?" he asked.  
  
Gleason brushed his chin with a gloved hand.  
  
"Sure, no problem. We've been out on a few patrol runs before this; we use the same place to climb up as the marines." Gleason looked over at Commander Murello.  
  
"That's right," said Murello, "there's a shallow slope that runs up a crack in the ridge. It's the one we always use, easiest place in the whole basin."   
  
"Very well." said Ian, turning back to the riders, "Get up to the top and scout the route north-west for the first two miles, then report back."  
  
Gleason pulled his goggles down, and gripped the bike's handlebars.  
  
"You got it."  
  
Revving their engines, Gleason and Pryce shimmied round, before accelerating towards the ridge. Clouds of sand billowed in their wake, and as they shrank quickly into the distance, the scouting party started off towards the basin's rim.  
  
The sandy ground crunched beneath the marines' boots as they walked, and to their right, the Widow sun crept slowly above the line of the ridge, and into the pale blue sky. One of the massive, rocky spires within the basin stood close to their path, and wandering by on it's left, the marines were granted brief shelter from the sun as they passed under its long shadow. Shortly after, they arrived at the edge of the basin, the ridge in front rising up some sixty feet above. As Murello took the lead, the party cut right, skirting the ridge for twenty metres or so, until they came to a break in the cliff, which lead through into dusky, rocky gloom. The trail beyond was fairly wide, enough for three men to walk abreast, and ran diagonally into the ridge, sloping gently up and disappearing around a left corner. Murello gestured into the path, and Ian ventured through, the party trailing behind. This ragged passageway was in essence a curving fissure in the ridge, and as such was totally sheltered from the sun. The air was considerably cooler inside, and the marines found it easier going, even though they were travelling uphill. Along the centre of the path, sand and dirt were driven to the sides; the 'tracks' of the two hover bikes that had passed through some fifteen minutes before. As they neared the top, the dimness receded and sunlight began to diffuse back into the stony corridor from above. The marines walked back out into the sun, and made their steady way up onto the plateau. For as far as they could see, the bleak, arid wilderness of the Widow plains stretched flatly out in front of them. Away to the north ran the faint grey contour of a distant mountain range, to the south, a seemingly endless expanse of yellow earth.   
  
Ian led the scouting party northwest, and they began along the route towards the caverns. As they walked, Ian spoke into his headset.  
  
"TacCon from Latimer."  
  
"Go ahead, sir." Came O'Hanlan's voice.  
  
"Give me a sensor report."  
  
In the background, Ian heard a series of electronic blips from a computer console, as status screens were accessed.  
  
"Sir, the main array is online, all base sensors are active. We have you on the scope."  
  
"Good. What about the objective?"  
  
"The caverns were mapped at seven point four kilometres northwest of your current position. Stay on your present heading, and you should reach them in an hour."  
  
"Fine."  
  
As the party carried steadily onwards, Ian glanced round to check on the others. All twenty-four Spider Monkeys looked in good stead, and Sgt. Sheppard kept a watchful eye as she led them. In front, the Jackknifes, led by Sergeant Davies and Murello, walked surely and with familiarity, having covered this ground many times before.   
A rasping in Ian's earpiece brought the voice of Sergeant Gleason.  
  
"Gleason to Commander Latimer, do you copy?"  
  
"Go ahead Sergeant," replied Ian.  
  
"It looks okay so far, nothing to report. Do you want us to carry on to the objective?"  
  
"Affirmative. Once you've found the entrances and checked them out, try and find some shade, and then wait for us to get there. We shouldn't be more than another hour or so."  
  
"Copy that, see you in an hour. Gleason out."  
  
Ian shifted the weight of his backpack, and walked on.  
  
The hour did not pass quickly, by any means. As the morning drew on, the sun rode up into the eastern sky, and threw its full might onto the marines below. Even with tinted goggles, the bright light reflecting off of white sand made it hard to walk without squinting. Trekking gradually on towards the northwest, the party passed by a jagged dolomite mountain range, perhaps a dozen miles away on their left, their reaching slopes cast in sandy brown against the cerulean sky. The sound of their footfalls was rhythmic and consuming; a steady crunching beat against a near total silence. As they hiked on, the ground sloped downwards slightly, and the sand became littered with lumps of rock. Here and there were boulders, some over ten feet in height, set into the sandy shelf like ancient guardians. Above, the sun was nearing the crest of its arc, and after an hour of walking in the blistering heat, the marines had covered a little under four miles.  
  
The ground continued to slope downwards as the marines walked, and in the distance, about a hundred metres in front, there lay a small gathering of boulders and rocks; from where the marines walked, the stones bore the look of some gathering of shadowy travellers. Some were quite tall, almost like pillars that had been thrust out of the sand, and it was from the shadows of two of these pillars that Gleason and Pryce rode out into the sun, and towards the scouting party. Ian saw no hint of any caverns, nor even of any breaks in the sand which might lead underground. As the riders approached, Gleason waved his arm and shouted out.  
  
"Hey! Glad you could make it!"  
  
Ian stopped the party and turned to face Sgt. Gleason as he drew up.  
  
"What's your report?" he asked.  
  
"Good news, we found them." Said Gleason, beaming.  
  
"Where?" asked Ian, glancing around.  
  
Gleason gunned his engine, spinning his bike back around to face the rocks ahead.  
  
"Come on, I'll show you. You're gonna like this."  
  
Setting off again with the vulture bikes slowly leading the way, the marines walked up to and through the gathering of rocks. A dozen yards or so beyond, the ground rose up sharply, and then suddenly dropped. Walking up to the lip of the ridge, Ian looked down. Below was an enormous, round pit, about fifty metres from side to side, and about thirty feet deep. The walls around were encrusted with rocks and rough stones, and these were also cast about on the floor of the pit, along with yet more large boulders and rocky pillars. Close to the centre of the pit were two gaping openings in the ground, the floor of the pit running down into the holes at an angle. A third aperture cut into the wall of the pit on the western side, and a fourth at the far, northern end, set into the ground.  
  
The pit had a strange, almost storybook quality about it; isolated, half cast in shadow and decorated with strangely shaped gleaming rocks. A brief murmur rose from the marines behind.  
  
The walls of the pit were quite steep, but the rocks on the sides provided effective, if slightly jagged handholds, and with Ian leading the way, the marines descended down into the pit. Gleason and Pryce circled around a few yards to where the slope was less steep, and carefully guided their bikes down. Touching down onto the floor, and then walking to the centre, the marines were confronted by two of the cavern entrances. The ground rose up around the far end of each hole, giving each one a short canopy, and the impression of some enormous, yawning mouth. Inside, light dissipated quickly and after a few feet lay a thick, suffocating darkness.   
  
Ian turned around to face the others.  
  
"All right. Four openings, four marine officers, so that works out. I'll take squads one and two of my unit into this one," said Ian pointing to the hole on the left, "Sergeant Sheppard, take squad three over into that one in the side. Commander Murello, if you'd be so kind as to take two of your squads into that opening away over there, and Sergeant Davies can take the last squad into this one." Ian pointed to the second hole in front of them, on the right. As the marines dispersed, Ian turned back to Sgt. Gleason.  
  
"Get back up top and keep your eyes open. We'll contact you if we need you, but take a look down every now and then, just to make sure."   
  
Gleason nodded, and then he and Pryce steered their bikes back towards the side of the pit. Ian watched as they climbed back up to ground level, and then tapped his microphone.  
  
"TacCon from Latimer, do you read?"  
  
"Go ahead Commander."  
  
"O'Hanlan, we've located the cavern entrances. Are we still on the scope?"  
  
"Affirmative sir, you're coming through clearly."  
  
"Good, it's time for you to earn your pay check. We've split into four teams; keep track of each one and keep a continuous scan going on the caverns, we may have to refer to you for direction, use some of the tactical staff if you need to."  
  
"Understood, sir."  
  
A few yards over to the right, Sergeant Davies was getting ready to lead his squad of Jackknifes underground. High wattage torches stowed in their packs had already been taken out and fixed onto the muzzles of their rippers, and behind Ian, the Spider Monkeys did the same. With cautious steps, Davies and his squad descended below ground, and out of view.   
  
Ian flicked on his torch, now attached firmly to his rifle, and aimed it down into the black aperture in front. The thin beam penetrated into the darkness but was quickly stifled. While the marines behind switched on their torches, Ian gazed upwards at the pale sky. The blazing sun continued its ascent, and below, the shadowed portion of the pit receded slowly towards the eastern side. Ian motioned for the two squads behind him to follow on; and shining his torch into the gloom, he stepped forwards, and downwards into darkness.  



	9. Chapter 1: The Soldier - Part 8

  
  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER  
  
PART 8  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
Descending deeper into the tunnel, the marines were quickly shrouded in thick, black shadow. The passage sloped gently downwards and was round in shape, the ceiling lying mere inches above the marines' heads; ahead of them, their probing torchlights disappeared into the gloom. Tinted goggles ordinarily would have made matters worse, but the type that the marines wore were designed to only lessen the effect of strong light sources; in low light conditions such as this, they had a negligible effect.   
  
It became cooler as they crept further along, and the air became thick and stale. Stopping for a moment, Ian turned around and looked back towards the two squads behind. The marines lowered their torches to avoid shining them in his face. Ian looked back past the Spider Monkeys towards the tunnel entrance; through the cramped passageway, little light from the entrance could be seen past the frames of the marines.  
  
"Who's got the P.F.M.'s?" asked Ian, squinting in the darkness.  
  
Two silhouettes shouted out their names.  
  
"Private Wilson, sir!"  
  
"Private Coombes, sir!"  
  
"Get them out," said Ian. "Start with a chemical scan of this air, it seems a little off."  
  
The two marines retrieved their P.F.M.'s from their packs, and after taking a moment to calibrate them, began to brandish them in the air, passing them slowly from side to side.  
  
"Wilson, report." Said Ian.  
  
"It doesn't look too bad, sir. Nitrogen concentration down here's a little higher than normal, some hydrogen chloride as well; nowhere near toxic levels sir, but the concentrations could rise as we go further in."  
  
Ian peered further back.  
  
"Coombes?"  
  
"I concur, sir. I recommend we use respirators."  
  
"All right, everyone put them on." Ian pulled his microphone.  
  
"This is Commander Latimer to all marines. Use your respirator masks once inside; the air's most likely a few thousand years old. Let's not take any chances."  
  
Commander Murello, and Sergeants Sheppard and Davies each acknowledged for their squads in turn. In a few seconds, the marines of Ian's group had quickly checked over their respirator masks, and fixed them in place. The whispering sound of contained breathing filtered through the tunnel.  
  
"Wilson, get in front and start your scan."  
  
Private Wilson worked his way to the front, and extended the thin barrel of the P.F.M. into the air, his rifle gripped in his other hand. The detector emitted a low hum interspersed with faint ticks as it sent out sensor pulses into the shadows ahead.  
  
"Nothing yet, sir." Said Wilson.  
  
Ian nodded onwards.  
  
"Let's carry on."  
  
The marines started off once again, the sound of hoarse breathing and cautious footsteps echoing softly off the tunnel walls as they moved. Behind and above them, the shimmering gap through which they entered gradually shrank, and as the tunnel curved, it disappeared from view. A muffled, heavy blackness surrounded them. Ian spoke into his microphone once again.  
  
"TacCon from Latimer."  
  
There was no reply.  
  
"TacCon from Latimer." repeated Ian.   
  
A soft buzz of static stirred his earpiece, and then O'Hanlan's voice struggled through.  
  
"Go ahead, Commander."  
  
"What's going on, Corporal?" asked Ian.  
  
"Sir, there's some interference blocking the headset radios."  
  
"Yes, I can hear that Corporal, what's causing it?"  
  
"Sensor scans show large quantities of mineral deposits in the cavern structure, sir; nothing to do with the resource objective, some kind of ionic compound. It's interfering with radio transmissions, and base sensors can't penetrate further than thirty feet through it. The signals from your headsets, as well as the booster packs that you're carrying are giving the sensors something to lock onto, but we can't see much of anything else. The best we can give you is an area of about forty square feet directly around you."  
  
Ian shook his head in the darkness, confident that no one would see him.  
  
"What about the tunnel layout? How much can you see?"  
  
"Not very much at all, sir. There's just too much interference on the scope. We can just about see one large region of open space; it's about three hundred metres east-northeast of your position."  
  
"That'll do. Latimer out."  
  
As he followed on behind Private Wilson, Ian thought back to the intelligence reports he had read through only two days before. The tunnel network that they were walking through had been formed at least five thousand years ago, back when more than four fifths of the planet's surface had been covered by water. Confederate Geo-analysts had speculated that the tunnels had been the work of some prehistoric burrowing sea creature, possibly some giant variety of eel or sea snake. It was likely that these creatures, if they existed at all, had dug these tunnels out to form lairs in which to rest and breed. They may also have been able to acquire nutrients in some form from the mineral deposits in the earth around them.  
  
Continuing on, the air became cooler still, and without looking back, Ian called out.  
  
"Private Coombes."  
  
"Yes, sir." Came the reply from behind.  
  
"Perform another chemical scan."  
  
After a few moments, the young marine called out the results.  
  
"Sir, the nitrogen levels have risen, and there are some other gaseous compounds present as well. I'd say respirators are essential from here on, sir."  
  
"Right, everyone keep moving, and make sure those masks are secure."  
  
The passageway veered to the right, and sloped downwards even further, to the point where the marines had to brace themselves against the wall with their arms as they walked. Ian checked his pocket compass. A button press lit up its face, and it confirmed that they were now heading roughly east-northeast. The tunnel continued downwards, and after a minute or so, something caught Ian's eye. Halting the group, he moved past Private Wilson, and shone his torch beam along the wall on the left, tracing the point where the beam hit the side of the tunnel. He moved the light further and further ahead, until suddenly, the light disappeared; there was no wall. Stepping slowly forward, and gripping the side with his hand, Ian came to the edge of the passage, and he stood, peering out into the blackness, searching with his torchlight to find any sign of the cavern wall. Above, he could just make out a portion of the ceiling, perhaps twenty feet above the level of the tunnel. Below, however, the light from his torch found nothing save a thick blanket of darkness.   
  
Reaching down into his belt, Ian pulled out a flare pack. A bundle of five, thin, stick shaped manganese based flares, each was capable of illuminating everything within about thirty feet. As Ian ripped off their igniter tags, the flares lit up at one end with a loud rasping sound. He then scattered them around into the darkness in front, and waited. After a few seconds, far below, the flares hissed into life, sending an explosion of reddish light into the rocky chamber. Ian stared, speechless. From behind, Private Wilson stepped up to the lip of the tunnel, and gazed downwards. His jaw dropped, and the two of them stood stunned, staring into the cavern below.   
The tunnel opened out into a large chamber, maybe fifty feet from end to end; the drop down to the chamber floor was at least forty. Dozens of Ridges and ledges were arrayed throughout the cavern and along its edges, creating somewhat precarious walkways to others parts of the chamber. What had struck Ian and Private Wilson dumb, however, as well as a few other marines who had now moved forwards to investigate, were the forty odd holes and cavities scattered around the walls of the cavern. It was likely that there were more still, which hadn't been illuminated by the flares. Perhaps as many as sixty tunnels branched out from this one chamber, with any or perhaps even none of them intersecting with tunnels from the other three entry points. Ian leant against the side of the tunnel; Private Wilson turned towards him, somewhat reluctant to speak.  
  
"It's…going to take us quite some time, sir."  
  
"That's putting it mildly, Wilson." Replied Ian, dourly. "I suppose it's too much to hope that you've picked up any readings yet?" Said Ian, quite sure that Wilson hadn't, having paid close attention to the P.F.M. over his shoulder. Wilson swept the detector across the air in front a few times and shook his head.  
  
"Sorry, sir. Apart from the ionic minerals in the earth, and whatever's floating in the air, I'm not getting anything."  
  
Ian nodded slowly, and then spoke into his headset.  
  
"TacCon from Latimer. O'Hanlan, do you read me..?"  
  
O'Hanlan's voice crackled through the interference.  
  
"Just about, sir."  
  
"Corporal, we've come that open space on your scope. Can you pick it up now?"  
  
"Yes, sir. Looks, it looks like there are at least fifty possible exits."  
  
"That sounds about right," said Ian, "I'm going to split up my team; the more ground we cover, the better. The immediate problem is navigation, I don't want anyone getting lost in here."  
  
"That shouldn't be too much of a problem, sir. As each team moves through the tunnels, I've been able to generate a map of the layout based on the ground they've covered. If anyone does get lost, I'll be able to guide them back the way they came."  
  
"Good, keep your eyes open. Latimer out."  
  
Ian turned around to face the others.  
  
"Well, it looks as though we have a lot of ground to cover. I don't anticipate that we're going to get the job done on the first day, perhaps not even the first few days if there are more caverns like this one, but we have to slog on. We'll split the two squads here and go on separately. Corporal Young…"  
  
"Yes, sir"   
  
"You're back in charge of squad two," said Ian, "I'll keep hold of squad one. Remember to keep checking in with TacCon, they'll make sure you don't get lost. Report everything that you find, and stay alert, understand? All right, watch your step."  
  
Directly to the side of where the tunnel opened out, a narrow ledge ran right and down into the cavern, where it widened out and connected with embankments and ridges from elsewhere in the chamber. Easing his way out onto the ledge, Ian carefully led the two squads down onto the walkways. Reaching somewhere near the centre of the chamber, Ian stopped, and searched around with his torchlight.  
  
"It seems as though one way's as good as another. Squad two," Said Ian, motioning into the darkness, "pick a tunnel and get moving. We rendezvous back at the surface at 1800." and with that, Ian led his squad further down and then cut left towards the cavern wall. Presented with half a dozen possible routes, he picked one at random, and, with his squad close behind, he ventured inside.  
  
The rest of the Spider Monkeys led by Sergeant Sheppard, and the Jackknifes with Murello and Davies had met with similar levels of success. All of the squads had encountered hollowed chambers of varying sizes dispersed throughout the tunnel network, from where dozens more passages sprang out in every direction. Throughout the day, progress was made painstakingly slowly, as ground was covered and mapped out, and tunnels which came to a dead end were found and eliminated from the search. By 1730 hours, none of the squads had detected any sign of the resource objective. After checking in, each team backtracked, and made its way back up to the surface. As Ian's group made their way back up the long tunnel to the opening, clearly drained after more than seven hours of searching relentlessly in the dark, Ian received a transmission in his headset.  
  
"Commander Latimer from TacCon, do you copy?"  
  
The radio interference was lighter as they approached the surface, and Corporal O'Hanlan's voice came through with little hindrance.  
  
"Go ahead Corporal." Replied Ian.  
  
"Sir, you've got a little weather heading your way from the west; it's nothing serious, but Meteorology spotted some wind currents approaching you, and a low pressure front about thirty miles away, which could be on its way in. you'd be advised to make best time possible back to base, sir."  
  
"Understood, Corporal. Latimer out."  
  
Spending nearly one quarter of the day underground had acclimatised the marines' eyes to low light levels, and walking back out into the light of the Widow sun was no pleasant experience. They were spared its full effect however, as it had now fallen below the upper edge of the pit, most of which was now cast in a muddy shadow. As the marines stepped back out onto the pit's floor, and removed their respirators, Ian walked forward, and looked around through squinting eyes. On the north side of the pit, Commander Murello was heading over with his two squads, and Sgt. Sheppard could be seen emerging from the other opening with the third squad of Spider Monkeys. After a minute or so, the last squad of Jackknifes lead by Sgt. Davies walked out of the last hole, blinking and shielding their eyes. Murello walked up, slightly out of breath, and his collar stained with sweat.  
  
"Well, that was fun."  
  
Ian gave a tired nod.  
  
"It's a start."  
  
He looked over towards the assembled marines.  
  
"TacCon's spotted some inbound weather. Let's get moving now, I'll take your reports en route," he said, glancing at Sgts. Sheppard and Davies.  
  
The marines made a last, quick check of their gear, and then made for the edge of the pit. After Hauling himself up, Ian looked westward. Already, there was a thin, veil of brown laid low in the sky some five miles away, slowly creeping closer as sand was whipped up and driven over the scorched ground towards them. The centre of the sandy cloud burned orange as the setting sun behind continued its journey downward towards the horizon. Without further pause, Ian led the marines back towards the rocky plateau where Gleason and Pryce were waiting, and after meeting up, the scouting party began the long trek back to Fort Sunderland.  
  
The walk back was slow, and lagged terribly. Every member of the party had covered at least ten kilometres in the time that they were underground, with little or no rest, and the entire group was now nearing exhaustion. The evening heat was less intense, much to the marines appreciation, and their shadows were long and hazy. As they walked, Ian took reports from each of the squads, and checked back with Corporal O'Hanlan at the T.C.U. From the day's efforts, nearly eighty kilometres of tunnel ground had been covered, and mapped out on the TacCon's mainframe. However, what little the base's sensors could see of the rest of the caverns indicated that this could only be as little as five percent of the total area present. It would take weeks to fully explore the caverns, but with the resources being potentially located at any point inside them, they could be discovered in a matter of days. Ian hoped that they would get lucky soon, but prepared himself for the possibility that it would take far longer.  
Approaching the base, they were overtaken by the sand cloud. A much softer wind than the one which had greeted Ian on his arrival, it was nevertheless enough to warrant the marines putting on their respirator masks once again. It swept above them as they descended into the basin around Fort Sunderland, and had nearly passed out of sight by the time they wearily hauled themselves up the access tunnel and into the Main Barracks.  
  
After weapons and gear had been checked in, the marines of the first scouting party retired to their quarter for grateful, hard-earned rest. A short while after, Commander Ingo Deist took the three squads of the 172nd Tommy's curse that made up the second scouting party out into the desert to continue the search. In another twelve hours, it would be the Spider Monkeys' turn once again.   
  
After a short rest and a light meal, Ian settled into the TacCon to review the day's progress. O'Hanlan had performed well in his role as squad coordinator, and the newly generated map of the desert caverns represented a strong start. In addition, the C-19g rippers had all held up under the weather, although conditions had been good, and there had yet been no cause for any of them to be fired. Should conditions worsen, Engineer Sajan's modifications would no doubt be properly tested.  
  
O'Hanlan alternated with a member of the tactical staff as squad coordinator, and ended his day at 2200. Ian stayed longer. After further scrutinising the terrain maps, and compiling the day's reports, he then observed the progress made by Deist's unit as they carried on where he had left off. Finally, a little after eleven o'clock, Ian left the TacCon. He slept the deep sleep of a weary man, and although his slumber was intense, and welcome, it was brief. The next day arrived all too quickly.  



	10. Chapter 1: The Soldier - Part 9

  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER  
  
PART 9  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
  
And so Ian, and the soldiers of Fort Sunderland settled into routine; night and day became meaningless, as body clocks were adjusted to follow the authority of the duty shift. The marines were awake and alert when on duty, and slept soundly and deeply when off. Days passed, and away to the northwest, the caverns unfolded before the scouting parties' unrelenting advance. The sun rose and fell, and the yellow ground burned and cooled; day by day, the TacCon's cavern map extended further into unknown regions. The marines worked on in the darkness, through winding tunnel, and across narrow ledge; using ropes and climbing hooks to delve into those passages out of reach, casting flares to illuminate hollowed chambers, from where yet more tunnels sprang out. Through searing day, and shadowed, dusty night, the marines worked on.  
  
Eleven days passed with little event. Nearly five hundred miles of tunnel and cavern had been mapped, and yet the scouting parties had still found no sign of the objective. Seven days of harsh weather had put the Rippers' sand proofing to the test, and most had held up well, but a handful had succumbed, and with no replacement parts for the eroded rifles, they were rendered useless.   
  
Away in the west, the Widow sun cast a ginger glow across the evening sky as it set, and on the temperate sand below, Ian, Sgt. Sheppard, and three squads of the Spider Monkeys trudged back to Fort Sunderland after another day of creeping in the dark. A solid day's work had been done, and the marines thought of little but food and rest as they covered the last mile and a half back to base. The basin lay before them, and Ian brought the group to the top of the rocky corridor in the cliff, when his earpiece crackled to life.  
  
"Commander Latimer from TacCon, do you copy?" said the voice of Tactical Assistant Nicholas Holt, the TacCon staff officer who was sharing duty with Corporal O'Hanlan.  
  
"This is Latimer."  
  
"Commander, S.T.C.U. just reported incoming traffic."  
  
Ian stopped in his tracks. Rather than continually waiting and hoping that the supply drop was going to arrive, Ian had instead decided to turn his thoughts to more immediate matters, and concentrate on the tasks at hand. After eleven days of immersing himself in the routine of scouting duty, as well as being occupied by his numerous responsibilities as Tactical Commander, Ian had almost forgotten about the dropship run scheduled for that evening. For a moment, he stood hopeful, anticipating Holt to come through with the news that the long awaited military supplies had finally arrived, and only a second after realised that the cargo would be nothing more than provisions and medical supplies.  
  
"A dropship?" asked Ian, as he began down into the corridor.  
  
"Checking…confirmed, one Osprey class dropship inbound, bearing 082 degrees. They've entered atmosphere and are on their way in."  
  
"Have they made contact yet?"  
  
"Copy that Commander, S.T.C.U. reports the incoming dropship has made radio contact. They've just declared their cargo, food and water rations, engineering apparatus and parts, Med equipment, personnel and military supplies."  
  
"Very well, th-what?" Ian stopped a second time, but this time for good reason.  
"Say again TacCon?"  
  
"Confirmed, Commander. Incoming dropship is carrying personnel and military supplies"  
  
"Where are they?"  
  
"They're two kilometres out from the base, sir. They should pass right above you."  
  
Ian spun round and peered into the sky to the east. Amid the background of crimson, and the glowing streaks of gaseous vapour high in the stratosphere, the profile of a Confederate dropship sat low in the sky, gleaming as it reflected the last, fading light from the setting sun. As it approached, the roar of its engines preceded it, and mere moments after, it thundered overhead, and down towards Fort Sunderland.  
Ian gazed at the craft as it arced towards the base's starport. Military supplies: that meant only one thing, that the weapons, ammunition and armour that the marines had been waiting for, for so very long had finally been shipped. The personnel on board would have to be the Tactical Command officers, sent to assist Ian. They were a few days early, but so much the better, he thought. Sgt. Sheppard had listened to the conversation on her headset, and looked at Ian with bright eyes and a wild grin. Ian gave a soft sigh. He hadn't been waiting anywhere near as long as Murello and Deist for these supplies, or anyone else who had been assigned to Fort Sunderland from the beginning, but the wait had taken its toll. Short of the war being over, it was just about the best news he could have hoped to receive. With renewed energy and vigour, Ian hoisted his pack and turned to his unit.  
  
"Come on, double time!"  
  
The Spider Monkeys passed down into the basin and covered the two kilometres back to the base at speed. As they drew in, they could see the vapour trails from the dropship's engines still lingering in the air, tracing a path overhead towards the starport's landing pad, and they could hear the faint echoes of commotion as far above, ground crews went about unloading the vessel's cargo.  
  
Once inside the barracks, Ian quickly stowed his gear, and activated the nearby com terminal, patching a line through to the T.C.U. Tactical assistant Holt's face appeared on the view screen.  
  
"Holt, report." said Ian.  
  
"Sir, the tactical officers have arrived: Lieutenant Hilary Platt, Lieutenant Jonathan Greaves and Lieutenant Commander Konig Verassin."  
  
Ian hadn't heard of any of them, but that didn't surprise him. They had probably been transferred from far afield to plug the gap in the officer corps left by the enemy's attacks. Thirteen days had passed since Ian had arrived on Widow XII, and he had no ideas as to how the war might have progressed since then, no idea of how many officers or units might have been pulled from their assignment to replace the dead.  
  
"What about equipment?" asked Ian.  
  
"I'll send a copy of the drophip's cargo inventory to your terminal, sir."  
  
Ian waited a moment as the information was fed through to the screen in front of him. A list of items scrolled into view, and Ian read quickly through. The dropship carried a full complement of fifty standard issue C-14 Impaler rifles along with ammunition, as well as eighty CM-16d "Shredder" machine guns; smaller and lighter than the C-14, the "Shredder" made up for it's poor range and low ammo capacity with its effectiveness in close quarters. In addition to these, there had also been two block crates of CFG-2 fragmentation grenades, with sixty grenades in each, and three more boxes of flares. It was a good turnout, thought Ian, and if equipment was still in short supply, as it had been when he had been assigned to Fort Sunderland, then this shipment was to be appreciated. Scrolling down to the bottom of the list, Ian saw the finishing touch; thirty-five suits of CMC-300 powered armour. It wasn't enough for everyone, but it didn't have to be; there were enough now to make sure that every member of each future scouting party would be properly protected. Once the resources had been found, the Engineering Bay could start making use of its construction templates, and begin manufacturing more of them for field use.   
  
"Commander, there was another officer on board the dropship." Said Holt, "He's just been registered into the base mainframe."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"A Commander Harold Bellamy, sir."  
  
Ian raised his eyebrows.  
  
"Bellamy?"   
  
Ian spoke the name in hushed disbelief. It was a surprise even greater then that of the arrival of the military supplies, and caught Ian entirely off guard.  
  
"Where is he now?"  
  
"Hold on, sir."  
  
Ian waited as Holt retrieved his location from the Adjutant.  
  
"He's in the officers' mess, sir."  
  
Ian hurried out of the barracks, and up towards the shuttle terminal, where he barely made it through the doors of the waiting transport. Now, at the end of the day, people were returning to their quarters from the day's work, and the shuttle murmured with the conversations of civilians, engineers, technicians and operators, all worn out after their shifts. After nearly two weeks, Ian had become a little more recognised than when he had arrived, and here and there he was given a respectful nod or an acknowledging smile. In truth, he cared little for it, and especially not at this moment in time; right now, he was rather too preoccupied with the news he had just received to engage in pleasantries with strangers. Once inside the command centre terminal, Ian quickly made his way inside and into the upper ring, and then along the corridor leading to the officers' mess. He opened the door and walked in; inside, leaning against the small table on the far side of the room, and taking a slow sip from a glass of water was a near giant of a man. Standing well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest, he was a daunting sight. Thick tresses of greying auburn hair crowned a grim, well-defined face. Clean-shaven, and dressed in the standard sand coloured combat fatigues; his bright eyes widened as Ian walked inside, approached him, and then clasped both hands around his shoulders.  
  
"Harry!"  
  
Commander Harold Bellamy took Ian's hands and shook them, a fond, heartfelt smile having swept across his face.  
  
"Ian! Jesus, it's good to see you."  
  
"My god Harry, what are you doing here?"  
  
Harold Bellamy chuckled, and it was a sound that Ian had not heard in many a year, a sound that brought only the best memories to mind, and the warmest feelings to heart. Harold was one of those unruly Yanks that Ian had such a poor view of; born on the confederate world of Krigo Val, he had joined up with the Marine Corps when he turned eighteen. In the midst of scores of marines and officers who had been drafted from a life of crime via the resocialisation process, Harold was one of the few volunteers in the confederate marines, one of those who had joined out of loyalty to their home world, and to the cause of peace. He was one of the few who came through the colony wars with success, not merely survival to his name, and who had stood up to be counted.  
  
Ian had first met him in 2575; Ian was twenty-three, Harold a year older. During the colonial revolt on Jenes V, Marine brigades from the Anglian worlds of Milo, Euripides and Ian's home world, Farris Minor, were drafted in to assist those platoons already dispatched from Tarsonis and Verda. The campaign was bloody, and raged on for many weeks; when the revolt had finally been stemmed, no platoon or brigade had been left with more than a third of its original number. The marines were forced to remain vigilant however, by small pockets of resistance who continued to strike out even though their rebellion had been crushed. While they dug in and waited for reinforcements to arrive and help contain the remnants of the rebel force, the exhausted marines cast aside their old unit affiliations, and combined to form new platoons, fewer in number, but each with a full complement of men.   
  
It was in one of these new, joint units that Ian Latimer and Harold Bellamy first met. Ian had been stationed with the 124th "Journeymen", Harold with the 111th "Muskrats". With twenty-one men left between them after almost three months of fighting, these two units, along with the survivors from the 131st "Polaris Fire", were dissolved and merged together to form the 149th "Windtails", a unit which had survived through to the end of the colonial wars, and presently, still remained in active service. After fighting alongside each other through such bloodshed, in the midst of such terrible conditions, the marines from both Anglian and American origin had come to form strong bonds with one another, even though there were various disagreements about each other's methods and conduct. Even in his youth, Ian had harboured a certain mistrust of the American marines; they were seen to be rowdy and careless, while the Anglians were just as unfairly perceived as being arrogant and imperious. Ian and Harold had been assigned to a squad together, and against their prejudices, and as is usually the case with squad mates, the two became firm friends. Having survived numerous scrapes on Jenes V, the two of them went on to face ever more dangerous situations in hostile environments as they successfully completed four tours of duty with the 149th. There was a stark, yet affable contrast to their friendship; on the one hand, there was Harold Bellamy, a giant of a Yank who roared in battle, and was as lively and as cheerful as any soldier could be, and on the other was Ian Latimer, a wiry, pale Anglian, who ate his meals by himself, and who rarely spoke save to acknowledge orders.   
  
Despite their skill, the Windtails never came through a tour of duty without taking losses, and as they watched their friends and comrades die, Ian and Harry learnt to watch each other's backs. The Windtails were periodically infused with new blood as new recruits and veterans alike were transferred in to replace those lost in combat, and after serving four tours of duty, Ian and Harry were given the option to either remain with the unit, or be transferred out themselves. Despite their fondness for the Windtails, seeing that nearly all of the original members had either been killed or otherwise declared missing in action pushed the two of them to decide that it was time to move on. Each going their separate way more than four years after they had first met, they had agreed to try and stay in contact with one another, and both had managed for a little while, but the different paths that both took after leaving the Windtails made staying in touch increasingly difficult.  
  
Ian returned to serve in the Anglian Marine Corps, and after six years of steadily rising through the ranks, and two temporary commands, he was given full, permanent command over his own brigade; the 141st Spider Monkeys. Ian had built no reputation in his role as a marine commander, not even amongst the Anglian Corps; his was not a prestigious unit. Instead, he preferred to simply follow orders, achieve objectives as best and as efficiently as possible, and to make sure that his unit got home safely.  
  
Harold Bellamy chose a significantly different path. After transferring out from the Windtails, he signed up with a succession of high risk, front line units: the 82nd "Brazen Stars", the 103rd "Vipers" and the 76th "Jagged Edge". Each platoon was well known to be amongst the first response units dispatched by Confederate Command to trouble spots, and as Harold improved his standing in the Marine Corps and moved from one unit to the next, successive high profile victories earned him a reputation as a man capable of getting results. After four years of fierce fighting in the colony wars, he was rewarded with various opportunities to command, and over the course of the next five years, Harold both acquired and relinquished authority over two marine platoons, one mobile armour division, and two confederate bases; he made a glamorous practice of taking up the reins of any high risk, heavy outcome situation that was in need of a commanding officer, and then passing over responsibility as soon as the situation had been resolved; he moved from glory to glory, and all the while the approving gaze of Confederate command was upon him. Since the start of the war, he had become one of the Confederacy's "Golden Boys", and these days functioned as an independent trouble-shooter, assigned by Command to oversee high priority situations, and ensure success for the Confederacy.   
  
The two had lost contact at around the time that Harold had been given his first command, some six years ago, and in that time he had aged well. Approaching forty, he was in good enough shape to take down any younger marine who felt brave enough to try him; his physique showed little sign of flagging under the influence of time, and his keen eyes reflected a wit honed and kept sharp by the rigours of combat. It seemed as though time had hardened and ripened him, whereas in Ian's case, it had simply worn him down. Even his laugh was the same; it was deeper, and there was a stony rumble to it, but it had still sounded with the same vibrant energy of his youth. As Harold chuckled, Ian was reminded of the times when the two of them shared guard duty in the Windtails, long nights when Ian would listen intently to Harry's disgusting stories of war and lechery. They would come out with wild and comical plans for what they would do after the war had ended, and they would laugh with the defiant, youthful humour of boys wearing soldiers' uniforms. Harold would make light of any situation he could, even battle: after the fight was done, and even during, he laughed, as if the world meant nothing, as if no force could ever harm him. It was a good laugh, and for the fist time since he had arrived on Widow XII, Ian smiled openly.  
  
"I'm having a drink," said Harold, smiling and holding up his glass, "It's like a furnace out there!"  
  
"Harry!"  
  
"Heh heh, I brought your supplies!" said Harold, smirking.  
  
"I'll say you did. Eighty Shredders, that's not bad at all."  
  
"Well, it's like my grandma used to say, you can never have enough fully automatic machine guns."  
  
The two of them laughed, and it was like old times, as though the years had been stripped away. For a moment, they were back on guard duty, huddled against a wall in the rain with nothing save their limitless imaginations to entertain them. Harold put a great hand on Ian's shoulder.  
  
"God sakes, Ian. It's been too long. It's been way too long."  
  
Ian gave a gentle nod.  
  
"You're right."  
  
While Harold drew up a chair, Ian poured himself a glass of water, and brought the glass and the jug over to the table. Sitting down opposite Harold, he drained a full glass, and then poured himself another.  
  
"Whoa," Said Harold "been out in the sun?"  
  
Ian nodded from behind his glass.  
  
"I was, heh, I was about to say…you're a little ripe." said Harold  
  
Ian put down his glass and smiled.  
  
"Yes, well, crawling around in hot caves for seven hours tends not to work wonders for the old body odour."  
  
"Right, how's it going anyway?" Asked Harold, taking a sip from his glass. Ian leant back in his chair, and heaved a sigh.  
  
"About as well as can be expected, I suppose. Progress is slow, but we're keeping at it."  
  
"How's your unit?"  
  
"The Spider Monkeys? I suppose they're all right. Managing well."  
  
"You got a new XO, right?"  
  
"Well, she's hardly new. She's been with us for fourteen months, now. How did you know? Been keeping tabs on me, have you?"  
  
Harold gave a soft grin.  
  
"A little. It's good to keep track of people; I doubt you've been doing the same."  
  
"I didn't have to," chuckled Ian, "all I needed to do was turn on the television, and there you were!"  
  
"Exaggerating a little don't you think?" Replied Harold with a sly expression.  
  
"Yes, well, you've certainly made a name for yourself. You've done well."  
  
"We all have." said Harold.  
  
It struck Ian as being the sort of thing a sports coach might say to a losing team to cushion the blow. He imagined that in Harold's position, he would have had to make uplifting speeches to rally the troops, and he had probably become fairly adept at ad-libbing that sort of thing; he hated to think that Harold might use lines like that on an old friend, such as himself. Ian put the thought to one side as Harold spoke again.  
  
"So…you got a woman as an XO. I never have thought you'd go along with that."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" Asked Ian with a raised eyebrow.  
  
"Well, it's not that you were ever prejudiced or bigoted or anything, but, you were always a little..."  
  
"A little?"  
  
Harold bit his lip and smiled.  
  
"I guess you were a little…narrow-minded. All those yank jokes your Anglian pals used to tell back in the Windtails, you never joined in, I know that, but you never disagreed. Even though you never said anything, I knew that you never really trusted us, not really."  
  
"I trusted you, Harry. And in any case, it's not like your lot didn't give the same to us. All those jokes about Brits having to be ordered to go to the toilet and so forth."   
  
Harold grinned and nodded.  
  
"I suppose it doesn't really matter," said Ian, "in the end, we all worked well as a unit."  
  
Harold leant forward and gazed down into his glass.  
  
"Yeah, good old Windtails."  
  
For a moment, the two sat silently, sparing a thought for their old unit, and the memories that had came with it.  
  
"Anyway. Hunh, a woman." Harold smirked and shook his head.  
  
"Hey, knock it off," said Ian, laughing, "Sergeant Sheppard's a fine XO."  
  
"She is?" said Harry with a mock sneer.  
  
"Bloody right. In fact, I'd go as far as to say she's the best XO I've ever had."  
  
"Uh huh, and you didn't object to her assignment as your XO whatsoever?  
  
Ian paused, his mouth open.  
  
"Well, I..."  
  
"Ha, I knew it! I knew it, same old Ian!"  
  
Ian laughed and shook his head.  
  
"Yes, all right, all right. Anyway, I've learnt better since then, lots better. She really is the finest officer I've ever worked with. I honestly couldn't do without her."  
  
"Well, " said Harold, leaning back again, "I'd like to meet the woman who finally managed to impress Ian the chauvinist!"  
  
"I am not a chauvinist. Anyway, it's probably not a good idea. Right now, she smells as bad as I do."  
  
"Oh, that's nice, real charming!" laughed Harold.  
  
Ian smiled, and finishing his glass, he set it down on the table.  
  
"But, anyway, Harry, what an earth are you doing here?"  
  
The cheerfulness ebbed from Harold's face, as he looked Ian in the eyes.   
  
"Well, Ian, that's just it. It's…it's not good news."  
  
Ian furrowed his brows and looked back across at his old friend, caught slightly off guard by the sudden change of mood. After a short pause, he spoke.  
  
"Go on."  
  
Harold rested a hand on the table, and spoke slowly, and sombrely.  
  
"Ian, there's no easy way to tell you this, so I'm just going to come out and say it. I've been sent here by Confederate Command to relieve you of your duty, and to assume the post of Fort Sunderland Tactical Commander, effective immediately."  
  
Despite having just drunk two glasses of water, Ian's throat felt suddenly dry.  
  



	11. Chapter 1: The Soldier - Part 10

  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER  
  
PART 10   
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
  
Harold paused, and waited for a response. Ian knew that this was no joke; there were things that should never be said in humour, and announcing that you were being relieved of command was one of them. After staring through Harold with cold, probing eyes, Ian glanced around the table in front, as if physically searching for the words to say. After a moment, he looked back up.  
  
"Very well. I hereby relinquish to you tactical command of Fort Sunderland, and all of the responsibilities conferred by this post."  
  
Harold shook his head.  
  
"Jesus, Ian, you don't have to be so formal. We're frien-"  
  
"Permission to speak candidly." interrupted Ian.   
  
Harold sighed, and braced himself, aware of what was heading his way.  
  
"Granted."  
  
"What…the bloody hell is going on!"  
  
Ian leant forward, nearly toppling his glass, his eyes smouldering.  
  
"Damn it, Ian. You could've just come out and asked."  
  
"Not unless it's off the record, Harry. You know how I feel about that."  
  
"Yeah," nodded Harold, "I know how you feel."  
  
"Harry," began Ian, his voice now somewhat more tempered, "for nearly two weeks, I've been the Tactical Commander of this god forsaken place. You wouldn't believe the kind of mess that I've had to attempt to clean up, and now all of a sudden, you turn up out of the blue and tell me that you're taking over. Now I might just be going out of my mind but something tells me that that mess with the supplies was something to do with you. Now start talking, I want to know exactly what the hell is going on."  
  
Harold pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. After stepping away from the table, he turned back around to face Ian.  
  
"Have you heard of Sol Copianna? It's a confederate planet close to here, less than a light year."  
  
Ian stared up at Harold, his eyes fixed, his lips pursed.  
  
"No."  
  
"It's an agricultural world…it was. Since the war started, the confederacy's been using it to stockpile supplies and equipment, for rapid transit to nearby hotspots. Three months ago, the enemy speared through our border defences, and landed on half a dozen worlds in the Cerepes system, Sol Copianna was one of them. The other worlds were low priority; Command dispatched enough platoons and armour to hold them off, but the immediate concern was Sol Copianna. Losing that planet and the supplies we'd built up would've set us back a long way. Those bastards killed more than twelve thousand civilians before a response was mounted, and even then, there weren't enough experienced commanders to get the job done properly. I was called in to take over."  
  
"And save the day, no doubt." said Ian, his voice tight with sarcasm.  
  
"Ian, will you shut up for a second and listen to me?" Ian glared up at Harold as he continued.  
  
"We pushed them back, out of the fields and cities, and into the mountains. We brought explorers into close orbit to scan for their survivors, and when we found them, we wiped them out. After that, the orbital perimeter was re-established, and the remaining platoons were coordinated to take out the enemy presence on the other planets in the system. But that's where I've been. For the past three months, I've been on Sol Copianna."  
  
Ian stared at Harold with narrowed eyes, and slowly shook his head.  
  
"I still don't understand what that has to do with me."  
  
Harold took a step forward and placed his hands on the back of the chair he had been sitting in.  
  
"Ian, Fort Sunderland was meant to be my command. Five months ago when the geo survey first spotted those resources underground, and the Confederacy first decided to construct a base here, I was the one who they picked to take command."  
  
Ian sagged back in his chair and folded his arms, listening attentively as Harold continued.  
  
"Things didn't work out as well as they could have. By the time they'd gotten round to allocating units, the enemy had stepped up their attacks, the most accomplished divisions were transferred to the front line, and Command had to pick from what was left; the Jackknifes, not exactly the most expert unit in the Corps, or the most effective. The Tommy's Curse are the wrong sort of unit altogether for this assignment; they're infiltrators and shock troops, they don't have the experience to be deployed as watchdogs or first strike units, which was what this place was suppose to have. We find the resources, start manufacturing in the field, and by the time our incursion fleet gets here, we're equipped and ready to launch an attack across the border. You've been briefed on this, you know the drill; the planet held by the enemy on the other side of the border, Gychos II, a nice easy, valuable target. Taking Gychos II, that was the plan."  
  
Ian continued to watch and listen.  
  
"But like I said, things didn't turn out as well as expected. When Sol Copianna was attacked, and I was drafted in, it left just over two weeks until construction was due to start here, and since Command knew that driving those bastards out of the Cerepes system was going to take longer than two weeks, a lot longer, they knew there would be no one to command this place when it was built. In the end, I think they got an administrator to assume control of the T.C.U."  
  
Ian nodded slowly.  
  
"Kirkland."  
  
"Yeah, well, Command chose an administrator because they knew it'd be someone who'd just follow the adjutant's directions, and wouldn't take the initiative. They didn't want anyone messing up the state of things before I arrived."  
  
"What about me and my unit? Where do we come into this?" asked Ian.   
  
Harold stepped back and leant against the wall behind.  
  
"You and your unit were a lucky break. Command didn't expect there to be any highly skilled units left available in this sector, but when they found you on escort duty on Choman V, they decided to pull you out and put you to better use."  
  
Ian scowled.  
  
"Choman V was supposed to be our recovery tour." said Ian, "We'd been stuck on the front line for months, and were finally given two weeks to step back; our feet had barely touched the bloody ground before we were transferred back into action."  
  
"I'm sorry Ian, but timing was critical, and there were no other options. The Spider Monkeys are going to be the primary strike unit when we attack, but don't worry about recovering; there's time left before we head out. Those damn caverns are making sure of that."   
  
"What about the equipment, the cataloguing error; two months with no military re-supply?"  
  
"That was also unavoidable." Said Harold, lowering his head. "In case you hadn't noticed, Ian, the war's not exactly going our way out there. We're being run down, and equipment's in short supply. Fact of the matter is that at the time the units had been transferred here, there just weren't enough weapons and armour to properly equip them. It seems like it's bullshit, but it's the truth. Saying that it was a cataloguing error made it sound like the equipment was there, and ready, but it just hadn't arrived yet."  
  
"But the equipment you brought with you now," began Ian, "you're telling me that in two months, that equipment has only just become available?"  
  
Harold shook his head with an almost weary motion.  
  
"No, it was cleared for transit three weeks ago."  
  
Ian shook his head as he tried to piece together the pieces of the puzzle.  
  
"Then why is it arriving only now?"  
  
Harold looked up to face Ian.   
  
"Command wanted the equipment and me to arrive at the same time. They didn't want any of it to get here before me; the weapons had to be in optimal condition, and the armour completely undamaged. They didn't want to risk that when I arrived, there'd be substandard or damaged equipment waiting for me."  
  
Ian stared up at him in disbelief. Harold looked back and gave a slight shrug.  
  
"I guess they have a little more confidence in my abilities than they do in most others, and wanted to make sure I had everything I needed to make this work."  
  
Ian shook his head, his mouth ajar.  
  
"What if we'd been attacked?" he asked.  
  
"By who? There's zero hostile activity. I'm not normally one to wholeheartedly abide by Confederate intelligence reports, but I think the tek boys've got it right on this one. Records show that there hasn't been any evidence or indication of enemy activity within half a light year of this planet since the start of the war. Come on, be realistic; do you really think that Confederate Command would have delayed those supplies if there were any real threat to this place? The closest enemy presence is across the border, and none of it's spilled over into the Widow system, that's been confirmed. And, as according to plan, all indications are that they have no idea that we're over here."  
  
Ian shook his head once again.  
  
"But I do take your point," sighed Harold, "about the delay. It's a little…overzealous on their part, but it's the way they like to play things. They like to show favouritism, even if they don't admit it."  
  
Ian's head was spinning. Too much had been revealed for Ian to remain dead calm. All of the thoughts he'd had, all of the crackpot theories his imagination had conjured as to why the supplies had been delayed; not even in Ian's wildest imaginings could he have predicted it was simply because the Confederacy felt like pampering one of their all-star commanders. Ian gathered his thoughts together enough to ask one more question, the most important one.  
  
"Harry…why was I given command of this base, if it was intended for you?"  
  
Harold brushed a broad thumb across his chin.  
  
"Basically, to put up a front. That administrator, Kirkland, had been in supervised control of the TacCon for five weeks; people had to have been wondering where the official commander was. Murello wasn't qualified to take full control of the TacCon, and Command's got some kind of problem with Deist, so he was out. So they decided that when you arrived with the Spider Monkeys you should take over as Tactical Commander; make everyone think that everything was going smoothly, until I arrived to relieve you."  
  
Ian was stunned into stone-faced silence, and sat motionless in his chair, while Harold continued.  
  
"Six days ago, we finished clearing out the last of the enemy on Sol Copianna, and everything was set for me to resume my post here; the weapons and armour that had been requisitioned for this place had already been cleared, like I said, and tactical officers had been picked and sent on their way over here. By then, there was only one problem left; there were still no more marine units available for transfer to this base. That's not going to be the case for much longer; Command anticipates at least three more platoons'll be available within the next week and a half or so, but the sooner I personally acquired command over a unit, and start to work with it, to form a link of authority with it, the better."  
  
Ian was staring into the middle distance, when these last words caught his attention. He looked up, and his mind reeled at the direction in which he suspected Harold was taking.  
  
"Therefore, Ian, I've been authorised to not only take control of this installation, but to also assume command of your unit, the Spider Monkeys, for the duration of this campaign."  
  
In an unhurried, almost tranquil manner, Ian pushed his chair back, and slowly rose to his feet, leaning on the table in front. His hands were clenched fists, and his knuckles were the colour of bleached bone.  
  
"Say that again, Harry."  
  
Harold stepped forward.  
  
"Ian, I'm sorry. I really am sorry, but it's not like any of us have a choice in this."  
  
Ian lowered his gaze to the table. His voice was as hard and cold as tempered steel.  
  
"How…horrifically inconvenient for you."  
  
"Ian," said Harold, "this is one of those times when you're going to have to stand down. Despite appearances, the Confederacy's spent a lot of time and effort planning this out. Damn it, I've told you what's at stake here."  
  
Ian leant further forward and glowered up at Harold.  
  
"You've got all of the answers, haven't you? What the Confederacy thinks, what they did, why they did it. How is it you know so much?"  
  
Harold leaned over to face Ian.  
  
"Let's just say that me and Command are pretty close these days."  
  
Ian's face was drawn, his eyes little more than slits.  
  
"Yes, I'll bet you are."  
  
Ian's venomous tone was jarring, but not surprising. Harold stared unflinchingly back as Ian let loose.  
  
"You know, I've kept tabs on you too, Harry. I've watched how you've turned into one of the Confederacy's poster boys, riding into conflicts on your silver chariot and claiming the glory, not forgetting to stop and smile for the cameras, the bloody paragon of the Confederate military, and then leaving it to others to sort out what's left behind. The way that you're just…given units that serve your purpose, and then you cast them aside the moment you've won the credit, just like you're doing right now. You've had absolutely bugger all to do with Fort Sunderland, and now you waltz in and then they give you my unit. My unit! Let me tell you something about command, Harry, it's not something you can just pick up and drop as the whim takes you; it's built on trust. Trust and loyalty."  
  
"Is that right?" sneered Harry, "Trust and loyalty? Let me ask you something, do you think that you inspire trust and loyalty in your men?"  
  
"What?" snorted Ian.  
  
"Come on, Ian, I know you. I know what sort of a person you are; if you stood next to a statue, people'd have trouble telling you apart. Do you really expect me to believe that your men follow you out of trust? Don't kid yourself; they do it because they're bound to follow orders, nothing more." said Harry, scornfully.  
  
Ian slowly straightened himself, his burning gaze fixed on his old comrade.  
  
"You're right about one thing, though" said Harry, "I don't command,you're right, I don't. I lead; there's a difference. I lead, and I get the job done. I get results and that's all that matters. Individual people don't matter in this war, Ian; we're fighting for our God damn survival! All that matters is that we win; civilians, grunts, pilots, XO's, commanders…they don't matter. You have to look at the big picture."  
  
"What about respect, Harry? Does that matter?" asked Ian.  
  
"Respect for who?"  
  
"Respect for me!" hollered Ian, "Jesus Christ, what the hell am I supposed to think? Transferred out mid-assignment, dumped on this dust ball planet, and then two weeks later I'm told not only am I to give up command of my post, but my unit as well! What the hell was I supposed to be doing here? What do you need me for? All this time, all I've done is act as a, a babysitter! For my own bloody unit!"  
  
As he met the stony gaze of his comrade and friend with his own chilling stare, Ian tried to deliberate the situation within his own thoughts. Harry had never seen   
Ian this upset before, and realised that nothing would be resolved by arguing further. He could have simply pulled rank, and used the authority that Confederate Command had given him to press Ian into submission, as he had done to so many other officers, but he couldn't. Even after all of these years, and even after everything that had been said, there was enough left between them for him to at least try to talk Ian around. Harry paused for a few moments, and then carried on.  
  
"Ian, look, I am sorry, believe me. But like I said, there's simply no choice in the matter. You have to believe me. I know it's hard, I know you don't think much of me right now, and in a way…in a way you're right. I guess Command have turned me into an icon of sorts. To tell you the truth, it's worse than you think, they even want to get footage of this campaign to broadcast on the civilian channels."  
  
"Jesus Christ, Harry."  
  
"Now wait, wait." said Harold, "I know what you're thinking, but it's not propaganda or anything two-faced, you've got to believe me. There are thousands of folks back home; wives, parents, husbands, kids, all hoping that their loved ones are going to get back safely, you know that. And I know that you and me, we don't have anyone back home waiting for us, but there are plenty of others that do. And filming stuff like this; brave boys and girls, stationed on the front line, getting ready to carve a chunk out of the enemy, it does a lot of good for civilian morale. It lets them know that we're still fighting."  
  
"I thought you said that people don't matter," said Ian, his tone a little more controlled.  
  
"It's not my idea. Things like this come down from the Public Relation Division."  
  
"I see. Well, you sell it well for someone who doesn't believe in it."  
  
"I didn't say I didn't believe in it, it's just that you have to have priorities. Something like this wouldn't come too high up in mine, but Command sees it differently. Fort Sunderland's got a big role to play; this is where we strike back, where we start taking the fight to them. They figure the more people that see that, the better. I suppose, in some way, in some small way, I might agree."  
  
Ian put his hands in his pockets and stepping away from the table, began to pace slowly about the side of the room.  
  
"I guess I am a poster boy," said Harold with a despondent smile, "but I'm a soldier first of all, I always have been. Working like this, it isn't always the way I'd like it to be, but it gets results. It makes a difference. I guess in the beginning, I did it for glory; maybe that's not the case anymore. I just want this to work, like I know it can. Ian, we can hurt those fuckers. We can land right in their back yard and start carving them up, and once we start, then this war's going to turn, I know it, but you have to help me. You've got to stand down."  
  
Ian turned around to face Harold, and looked him in the eyes. There was sincerity in his voice; the tension between them had lifted a little, and Ian found himself with a moment to think clearly. He couldn't, in all his years, ever remember feeling like this. He was angry, certainly, that was unmistakable, but more than that, he felt used. He felt that even his long career of loyal service to the Confederacy had given them few qualms about treating him as though he were a puppet, or some miserable stray to be led about in the dark, and cast away without a care.  
  
But when Ian pushed through the feelings that clouded his thoughts, he realised that at least some of Harold's words rang true. They were fighting for their survival, and as Ian had always known, the Confederacy, despite all of its failings, all of its shortcomings, had never had any other goal than to ensure that the Terran civilisation survived. He was reminded of Bethany Rigg's words, as the two of them had spoken twelve days before: 'They may get it wrong, every now and then, we both know that, but they always come through in the end.'  
  
Ian still didn't believe that. He knew that the Confederacy seldom had solely noble intentions at heart, but once again, he was forced to realise that they were the best chance, the only chance. What few feelings, and what little ego Ian had were certainly bruised, but he knew that he couldn't protest on this. The responsibility and the consequences of this base and its command were far more important than any one individual, or their emotions; that was one thing that Ian couldn't argue with.   
  
Harry met Ian's gaze. Tempers had receded, but both suspected that too much had been said, and too much damage had been done.  
  
"Ian, please. Please, stand down."  
  
Ian lowered his eyes to the floor, and nodded.  
  
"All right. All right, Harry…I'll do what you want."  
  
Harold looked at him, and tried to think of something to say, something supportive and understanding that one friend might say to another, but he could find no words. He wasn't proud of the way this had turned out, by any means, but he suspected that perhaps there could never have been any other way.  
  
"Good. That's good," said Harold, "Look, I'm going to shake up your duty rotor a little, I want to get started on this right away. Commander Murello's on tonight; the Spider Monkeys will replace Commander Deist's team tomorrow morning. Don't worry, we'll start off a couple of hours later, just to make sure they're rested."  
  
"Very well." Said Ian, quietly.  
  
"One of the tactical officers who came with me, Lieutenant Commander Verassin, I've worked with him before; I want him to double up as my XO."  
  
Ian looked up at Harold.  
  
"What? Why?"  
  
"I've never worked with your unit, or your XO. I need a second in command who knows me, and who I'm familiar with. Someone who knows how I think. Otherwise they'll just be one more problem to handle, and we've got enough right now."  
  
"Harry, don't split my unit up from its XO as well as its commander," said Ian, "Sergeant Sheppard's a good officer, the men work well under her. They trust her."   
  
Ian stared into Harold's deep, hazel eyes.  
  
"Maybe more than they trust me."  
  
Harold looked back and sighed softly.  
  
"Okay, look, I'll tell you what. I'll take both of them. I'll keep Verassin as my XO, and I'll make Sheppard the acting unit leader. She'll still have authority over the unit, but she'll be subordinate to Verassin and myself. Good enough?"  
  
"Yes, good enough."   
  
Harold smiled faintly, and then stepped over to the table to finish his water.  
  
"There's one more thing I want to ask of you," said Ian.  
  
"Sure."  
  
"I know you've got two qualified tactical officers now, aside from Verassin."  
  
"That's right." Said Harold, taking another sip from his glass.  
  
"One of the Jackknifes, Corporal O'Hanlan, has been acting as squad co-ordinator these past two weeks. I'd like you to leave him on duty. He's been alternating with one of the tactical staff. I know you'd probably rather replace him with another member of the staff, or one of your officers, but he's done well. He's a bright lad, very capable, and he's learning lot from this. Of course, it's up to you."  
  
"No, it's okay, I'll leave him on. My officers'll be supervising; if he gets into any trouble, they'll step in." said Harold.  
  
"Fine." replied Ian.  
  
"What are you going to do? I mean, the TacCon's still open to you, if you wanted, you…"  
  
"Yes. Yes, I think I might," said Ian, scratching his chin, "If it's all right, I thought I'd just observe."  
  
"Sure," replied Harry, "I'd be glad to have you there."  
  
Harold emptied his glass, and then set it back down on the table, while Ian made towards the door.   
  
"Ian look," began Harold. "I'm..."  
  
"You're sorry, I know Harry," said Ian, "It's all right, I'm sorry too. I suppose I never really sympathised with your position; you're probably subject to orders more than the rest of us, being who you are. I suppose it's not easy, having your entire life run by Confederate Command. The rest of us do it, but we get a break from time to time."   
  
Ian reached out and opened the door, and then stood, glancing around once again as he searched for words.  
  
"I suppose they do take a lot of liberties; deciding whose units would best serve you, and then handing them over the way that they do. I suppose I really shouldn't be surprised that they did it here. I mean it's not as if you specifically asked for my…"  
  
Ian stopped. Instinct and reason combined to pose an unnerving thought. For all of this time, Ian had assumed that Confederate Command had made the decision to transfer command of the Spider Monkeys over to Harold, in the manner that they would normally do when assigning him to a post. What if they hadn't? Ian considered the situation: Command had decided that there was no immediate threat, and Harold himself had said that they had predicted an influx of new units within the next week and a half. Under these circumstances, it seemed suddenly very unlikely that they would transfer an entire brigade over to his authority when there was little need to. What if Harry had asked for the Spider Monkeys? He'd said that he wanted to start working with a unit as soon as he could, so it was simply a matter of personal preference; Command probably didn't see the need for him to be in actual control of a unit until the resources had been found, and by then, the reinforcements would most likely have arrived, and they would have a wider choice of units to pick from. Harry, on the other hand, wanted a brigade as soon as possible, and according to his own words, the Spider Monkeys were the obvious choice. And so, he would have had to ask for them. He would have had to specifically ask for the 141st Spider Monkeys, knowing full well that they were Ian's own unit, and that he would be pushed out. One of the most degrading things that could happen to a Confederate Marine Commander, to be forced to relinquish command of their unit, and Harry could have asked for it to happen. Ian felt sick. He simply couldn't believe that Harry might have done it, to him of all people, his old friend and squad mate, and yet his suspicions were too strong and too well founded to ignore.  
  
Harold stood still and silent and stared at Ian as though he knew what sudden thought had struck him. Ian could have settled the matter right then and there, all he needed to do was turn round and ask. But he didn't. Between any two friends there exists a line, a boundary that, if the friendship is to stand, must never be crossed. At this moment, the two of them were stood squarely on top of it. For Ian to ask would surely mean for them to topple uncontrollably over. Ian paused, and looked back over his shoulder, and looked Harold straight in the eyes, but he didn't ask.  
  
"I'll see you tomorrow, Harry." Said Ian, and with that, he turned back around and walked out.  
  



	12. Chapter 1: The Soldier - Part 11

  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER  
  
PART 11  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
  
Before returning to his quarters, Ian decided to make one last call to the TacCon, before he turned in for the day; one last visit before Harold took over. In the lift on the way down, Ian rubbed a clammy hand across his face to try and clear his thoughts. He had been caught off guard and unaware, and in his case, that was a rarity indeed. His unit had been taken away from him, and he decided that all that was left for him now was to try and come to terms with it, and to sit back and watch. When this campaign was over, he expected he would most likely get his brigade back. Either then, or whenever Confederate Command decided it was time for Harold to have a new unit.   
  
He was a little numb after his argument with Harold, and felt almost as if all of this was happening to someone else, and he was simply a bystander, watching, as a stranger's life fell apart. He felt oddly detached, as though his mind was somehow blocking his own feelings, to spare him the pain they would bring. It was a new experience for Ian; he felt little at the best of times, and although he had taken Harold's likening him to a statue sorely, he could put little argument against it. However, his present detachment was of a different nature; it was as though he was close to feeling something, something more than he had ever felt, and a purposefully constructed barrier, fashioned by his own mind, stood firmly in the way, shielding him from his own emotions. Ian was not a man accustomed to analysing his own thoughts, and indeed this could well have been the most consideration he had ever given them, but true to form, he decided it served little purpose, and turned his attention outwards.  
  
The T.C.U. was in its normal state of organised commotion when Ian arrived. Corporal O'Hanlan had just come onto tactical duty, and sitting at the sensor terminal in his now almost familiar role as squad coordinator, he gave a nod of acknowledgement to Ian as he walked past to the Commander's chair. Ian keyed in his authorisation code, which, after tonight would no longer enable him to access the Tactical Commander functions; tomorrow, Harold would transfer command functions to his own code, as Ian himself had done two weeks previously when he had relieved Kirkland. As he logged in, he was presented with a flashing line of text, which read:  
  
Commander Latimer, you have one unread mail message. Do you wish to view it?  
  
Ian opened the message file and read it. It was a simple, short message, probably written by the computer, and sent by the Central Administration unit, explaining that as he was no longer the Tactical Commander of the base, he wasn't allowed to use the Tactical Commander's quarters, or any of the quarters located in the T.C.U. His clothing, gear and other possessions had already been moved to one of the officers' quarters elsewhere in the Command Centre. Ian stared blankly at the message. It wasn't surprising, and Ian was expecting it, but seeing the message laid out on the screen like that, hit home the fact that he was no longer in charge.   
  
His rank of Marine Commander still enabled him to access classified mission files, however, and so his habit of reviewing tactical data files was, for the time being, able to continue unhindered. He transferred the files to his new quarters and logged out of the console.  
  
The T.C.U. staff were busy getting ready to coordinate Murello's scouting party, and as such, were not involved in any critical activities, only preparatory and diagnostic routines. If he had wanted to, Ian could have interrupted them to say a few words; concerning his standing down as their commander, of the officer who would be replacing him, perhaps merely a few words of gratitude for the work that they had performed while under him, or encouragement for the work that lay ahead. Ian, however, felt little affinity for them; O'Hanlan was perhaps the exception, but to Ian, even he was distant, and ultimately a stranger of little consequence. He knew next to nothing about any of them. They were just another group of faceless people who were there for the same reason as he was: to do a job. Perhaps he did want to say something, perhaps only a word or two to try and bridge the gap, even though they were at the end and it mattered little. However, regardless of whether he did, or did not want to, Ian said nothing, and left as silently as he had entered, while the staff around continued on with their work.  
  
His new quarters were located with those of the other officers, in the lower ring of the Command Centre. They were smaller than those of the Tactical Commander, only one room with a bathroom, and lacked a separate computer terminal, instead having one integrated into the small view screen, set into the wall. To Ian, the tightness of the interior was neither here nor there; a youth spent as a marine had accustomed him to sleeping rough, and so any room with a bed was a luxury in itself.  
  
As the hour approached ten o'clock, having showered and eaten, Ian settled down to read over the files he had transferred from the TacCon. There was little need for him to do so now, but routine was hard to break, and besides, Ian felt that although he was now essentially little more than a spectator, there would be no harm in being well informed.   
  
Half an hour's study had passed, when Ian's view screen blinked on, and the cold visage of the Adjutant peered down at him.  
  
"Commander Latimer, you have an incoming call from Chief Administrator Rigg. Shall I put her through?"  
  
Having been caught so utterly off-guard by Harold's sudden appearance, as well as the news he had brought with him, Ian had been doing a great deal of contemplating in the time since. As he accepted the call, he knew exactly what was coming.  
  
"Ian…"   
  
Bethany Rigg had made the call from her office, apparently working late. She opened her mouth to continue, but Ian was a step ahead.  
  
"You knew, didn't you?" He said, with no hint of feeling or surprise.  
  
Bethany paused briefly. There was some trace of faint surprise in her expression, but it seemed as though she had been expecting that Ian had realised the truth. She gave a repentant nod.  
  
"Ian, I'm sorry."  
  
Ian had begun to tire somewhat of people telling him how sorry they were.   
  
"Yes." He said, simply.  
  
"I'm sorry I lied to you. I didn't have a choice."  
  
"I suppose not. How many other people knew?"  
  
"Just me. That's the truth, I promise," said Bethany, "they told me that this was Commander Bellamy's post before I even got here. It was right after they told me that I'd been assigned as Chief Administrator. They told me to keep you in the dark until he arrived. Look, I..."  
  
"If that's everything, Chief Administrator…" interrupted Ian.  
  
Despite his own expectations, Ian felt no ill will towards her. Bethany had been given no choice but to follow her orders, and that was something that Ian understood only too well. But having said that, he was in no mood to listen to her continuing apologies; whatever guilt she may have been feeling because of her involvement in this, Ian felt little sympathy for her.   
  
"That's all." she said after a long pause, her head lowered.  
  
Ian switched off the view screen, sat down on his bed and began to mull things over. The Confederacy apparently had big plans for Fort Sunderland, and Bethany Rigg must have been overjoyed when she found out she was going to be involved. This place was going to be the first step towards driving the enemy back to wherever in hell it was that they came from. Troops from only one base wouldn't be enough to make a big difference; there were probably other bases similar to this one, other Fort Sunderlands, different names, different commanders, but the same agenda. Outposts positioned close to the border, from which the Confederacy could reach out into enemy territory and gain a foothold. While the front line receded into Confederate space, this would be the Terrans' chance of striking back. There would likely be a fair amount of prestige attached to an assignment such as this, of being involved in what might be the first decisive victory against the enemy. Ian figured that Bethany must have fought hard to even be considered for this place, and wondered if, in the end, it would be worth all of the effort she had given it.  
  
There were still some data files which Ian hadn't studied yet, but Ian had been knocked out of his stride, and he no longer felt like working on for the next half an hour or so that it would take him to finish them. Left with little to do, he activated his view screen again. The communications blackout meant that the base received no television or public channel radio broadcasts, and so played a series of outdated news clips and a few old films, stored in the Adjutant's memory banks. They held little interest for Ian, and after a few minutes, he switched the screen back off. Although he was tired after the day's endeavours, his thoughts were still a little restless. He could have simply pushed them aside and gone to bed regardless, but he chose instead to stay awake. A minute of slowly pacing about his room passed, when he found the closeness of his quarters had started to become a little stifling; and so after dressing back into fatigues, Ian switched the lights off, and left his room to talk a walk.  
  
He strolled with no particular destination in mind, and at this time of night, there were few people to be seen within the dim corridors of the Command Centre. Starting out at the lower ring, he worked his way upwards, through the administrative departments, and into the upper ring. Eventually, he found himself strolling down the exit corridor, which led through to the Command Centre's shuttle terminal.   
The tube shuttles still ran according to their set timetable, but at this late hour, there were few using them. The terminal was quiet and empty, save for the guard posted at the main entrance into the command centre at the north side. The platform curved as Ian walked to the south end and out of view of the guard, and a thin metal bench provided a break in his journey.   
  
Across the shuttle channel, and through the transparent shielding of the terminal's edge, Ian looked out towards the west. The last light of the day had all but passed; only a fading crimson blush was left, painted low in the dark sky. Ian breathed a deep sigh and sat back, while around him, all was still and silent save for the barely heard whispers of tube shuttles, echoing through the tunnels from elsewhere in the base. Ian stared into the darkness outside and let his thoughts wander. He could make little sense of what he was feeling, and found that the harder he tried, the greater the pain and confusion became. And yet, when he attempted to deflect his thoughts elsewhere, his mind wandered back of its own accord. His anger simmered uncomfortably inside him, there was no way for him to resolve or console it, and as he sat there a victim of his own broiling thoughts, being cast from one side to another, once again from the deepest part of him the unnameable feeling crept coldly to the surface. It had been days since he had felt it last, and it entered into him like a biting wind. Ian slumped back against the bench and closed his eyes. This day had carried him to a towering height, offering him a glimmer of hope and normality, and then had flung him back down to the ground. The feeling swelled within him, and he cast his mind back, trying to remember what it was like, what he was like before he had become this way, but he could not. He was aware of his own past self, but the feeling that held him now was all encompassing, and blotted out any attempt to recall a past frame of mind. Ian cradled his head in his hand, and struggled to stamp it down, as he had grown accustomed to doing. Every time it became harder and harder, and in this instance, he waged a quiet war with his own mind as the secret bane that held him so terribly, gradually, and reluctantly subsided.   
  
Ian kept his eyes closed, and his head still lay propped on his hand, whilst deep within, he gathered himself. Every time was harder, and every time that he pushed the feeling down, a little more of it was left behind to plague him. A dark numbness closed around him, and was abruptly splintered as a voice spoke through from the outside.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Ian opened his eyes, and looked up to find Sgt. Sheppard standing to his side.  
  
"Sergeant." said Ian, his voice low and sullen, "What are you doing awake? You're on shift again tomorrow morning. You should have been notified of everything by now."  
  
"Yes, sir." She replied, "I have, but I've just delivered today's reports to the TacCon, I've finished all of my duties for today, and…"  
  
"And?"  
  
"Well sir, I thought I might find you and have a word."  
  
Ian rubbed his hand over his face.  
  
"About what?" he asked.   
  
Sgt. Sheppard stood silently, trying to find the proper words, but in the end, merely looked down at Ian with a troubled gaze. Ian looked up once again to see the concern in her eyes. He looked down towards his feet, and nodded slightly.  
  
"It's all right, Sergeant," he sighed, "don't worry, Commander Bellamy is one of the most accomplished Marine commanders I know of. It'll be a big change, I know, but just make sure you pay attention; do the same as if it were me in charge, and make sure the men do the same, and you'll do fine."  
  
"Actually, sir," said Sgt. Sheppard, "it was more you, that I was, uh, that I was…"  
  
Sgt. Sheppard struggled to find a way to phrase her concern for her commander that was not too informal, or intrusive. Recognising his XO's intent, Ian looked up to face her.   
  
"I'm sorry sir," she said, as she began to step away, having decided it best not to pursue the matter, "I shouldn't have-"  
  
"No. No, it's fine, Sergeant." said Ian, a faint smile crossing his lips. He waved his hand over to the empty space on the bench beside him.  
  
"Here, take a seat."  
  
Sergeant Sheppard walked around and sat down at the opposite end of the bench, apprehensively eyeing Ian as she did so.  
  
"Sir, are you all right? I mean, I assume it wasn't your idea to transfer the unit over to Commander Bellamy."  
  
"That's neither here nor there, Sergeant. I was expected to follow orders and I did so."   
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"But, I'm fine." Ian hunched forward and looked in front, peering into the middle distance. "It's just that, sometimes it's difficult for soldiers to be friends. Sometimes orders make it difficult."  
  
In the entire time that Lorraine Sheppard had served under Ian as his XO, they had never had what might be described as a normal conversation. Many other commanders would have made an effort to become as close as possible to their second in commands; a strong bond was invaluable when working together and when attempting to anticipate each other's thoughts and ideas. Ian however, had kept his relationship with Sergeant Sheppard entirely professional, preferring a command chain based on efficiency and clarity, rather than any genuine empathy. When she had been assigned to the Spider Monkeys, Ian had meticulously pored over her service records and academy files, in order to gage her prowess and potential as a marine, and as his XO. At this moment in time, he became very much aware that he knew almost nothing about her, personally. He had told Harold that he couldn't get by without her, and yet, even after all this time, he knew next to nothing about who Lorraine Sheppard actually was.   
  
"I suppose that's the problem with continually answering to a higher authority. You don't always get what you want." Ian said, lowering his eyes to the floor again, "In fact, you hardly ever get what you want, so I suppose it's best not to want anything at all. Well, that's…just one way of looking at it, I guess."   
  
Ian looked sideways at Sergeant Sheppard.  
  
"When you get on in this job, you'll realise what's important; what's the right way of doing things."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Ian looked back across, out into the nighttime landscape. He wasn't exactly sure what he was trying to say, but he felt as though he was straying away from the things he really wanted to ask. It was a challenge for Ian to even vaguely enter into a personal conversation; so little experience with people in that way had left him with almost no frame of reference. He felt as though he wanted to reach out in some way, but he was unsure as to how. He scoured his thoughts for a way to begin a conversation, something to say, a question to ask, but he was at a loss; he simply couldn't. In the end, he didn't have to.  
  
"Sir," began Sergeant Sheppard, "If it's not too bold, I was wondering if I could ask: why it was that you joined the Marine Corps? I know you volunteered, didn't you, sir?"  
  
Ian nodded.   
  
"That's right." He took a slow breath, and stared out in front.  
  
"I joined because," he paused, furrowing his brow before carrying on. "Well, I had very few options back then. And so, the Marine Corps seemed…" Ian paused again. He wanted to let himself relax, but he didn't want to take it too quickly, or too far; he was coming close to elements of his past that he felt were perhaps best left alone. Altering his tone, he gave a routinely dull answer.  
  
"Ah, I just wanted to serve my planet, and the interests of the Confederacy. Simple as that."  
  
Ian's head hung low, as he silently berated himself for his lack of honesty and openness.   
  
"What about you?" he asked, "You know, I don't think I've ever asked you. Why did you decide to sign up?"   
  
"Oh, I'd wanted to leave Swandil Minor since, well, for a long time." said Sergeant Sheppard, "It's a lovely world to grow up on, but I didn't want to spend the rest of my life there. I don't know why, I just wanted to get out and see places. I guess I just wanted to experience what the Koprulu sector was like, all of those different planets, so many cultures and environments. And then when I got older, and found out how the war had been going on amongst the colonies, I decided that I wanted to try and do something about it. So, in the end, I decided that what I wanted was to join the marines and try and help, and if I could see the galaxy along the way, then so much the better. That's what I thought back then, and I still think it. I guess I joined because…I wanted to make a difference."  
  
Ian had never realised that his XO was such an idealist. At best, he had thought of her as honest and forthright, but had never thought her so unsullied by the ways of Confederate life that she would sign away her life to help others. In retrospect, however, he wasn't surprised. She could be tough when she needed to be, but her naturally gentle and sensitive manner gave the impression of someone who was there because she cared. Many Confederate Marine volunteers had some sort of agenda, be it fame, reputation, money, boredom, the desire to travel; Ian knew, however, that there were those who joined because right from the start they wanted to help change things for the better. He knew that they existed; he just hadn't expected to meet any of them.  
  
Sergeant Sheppard looked expectantly across at Ian. He decided that it was time to go out on a limb, and to start talking to her. He pursed his lips, and after a moment spoke out.  
  
"Do you miss your home?" he asked.  
  
"Oh, yes sir. I do miss it a little. I miss Heretrium, it's the city close to where I used to live. My friends and I would go there for day trips and such; I miss my friends as well, of course, but we grew apart a little before I left. I suppose it's what happens as you grow older."  
  
"What about your family? I seem to remember from your files, you have an older brother, don't you?" asked Ian.  
  
"Yes, sir. I have two actually, and a sister, a younger sister. My mum died a few years back, and my brothers left home, so it's just my sister and my dad left there now. Emily, my sister, I think she'd be finishing college about now; when I left, she still didn't know what she wanted to do with her life. Do you have any, sir? Family?"   
  
"No," said Ian, "no, I don't. It's just as well though. If I did, I suspect I wouldn't appreciate them."  
  
Sergeant Sheppard gave a quiet nod, and then smiled fondly as she thought back.  
  
"They threw a party for me when I left, my family. It wasn't a big do or anything; it was just the five of us. They, well, that was the last time that I saw them. I don't really keep in touch as I ought to these days. When I first joined up I used to contact them all the time, mails and such. My dad used to keep asking if I'd made admiral yet," she said with a chuckle, "I suppose I'm going to have to let him down one day."  
  
"What do you mean?" asked Ian.  
  
"Well sir, I just don't think that's realistically going to happen, that's all; command, I mean. I don't think I'm cut out for it."  
  
"Do you want to command?"  
  
"Yes, sir. Someday, but…"  
  
"Then let me tell you something," began Ian as he shifted on the bench and turned slightly to face her, "there are two things a person needs to command in this military. One is the ability itself needed to command. The other is the desire to do so. As long as you want to do it," he said, raising a finger towards her, "then you will…because you've got the ability in spades."  
  
Sergeant Sheppard's eyes widened as she received the first compliment Ian had ever given her. His icy demeanour had always made it difficult for her to judge what he had thought of her performance, but since he had never complained, she had figured him to have been satisfied with her, or at most, slightly impressed. This was a pleasant surprise to say the least.  
  
"Thank you, sir. I- I'm grateful you think so, but it just seems so far away. I know most junior officers would leap at the chance to command, and I would as well, but I'd think twice. I don't know why."  
  
"It's a change, it's a big change." said Ian, as he leant back again, and stared out across the terminal, "But I think you'll be able to handle it. Most do, simply because they have to, and the fact that you're a little apprehensive is a sign for the better, I think. There's always a little fear with progress, and if there isn't, there should be."  
  
Far away to the west, the last embers of the sun burned dimly above the lip of the basin. Ian watched as the amber glow flickered faintly through the darkness, and steadily shrank from view.  
  
"I'm fairly good at judging how well a person might bear responsibility, if they needed to, and I believe you have what it takes. I don't just mean about being able to handle pressure, you've got more than that. You inspire trust, the way you are with the unit; they adore you. And if they weren't the Spider Monkeys, if they were the worst bunch of feral convicts with shoddy resocialisation jobs, I don't imagine they'd feel too differently. You know when to be tough with them, when to hold your ground, and when to give it. You could do it with any unit, I suspect; it's one of the most fundamental requirements of a commander in this job. Inspiring trust…and loyalty."  
  
The words echoed in Ian's head, and for a moment, he remembered the biting words Harold had spoken during their argument. Sergeant Sheppard sat silently as he continued, his voice low, and his eyes searching through the side of the terminal.  
  
"I've had a long career, Sergeant. I've spent more than half my life in the military. There are people who would prefer not to bear a burden such as that, and there are those who would see no burden at all; who would excel, thrive, rather than survive."  
  
Sergeant Sheppard stared into Ian's hazel eyes as he turned to face her.  
  
"It seems quite clear to me which type you belong to. You're a fine officer, and you're a good soldier. You will command one day, I promise you that."  
  
Ian slowly turned his attention back to the shrouded landscape, Sergeant Sheppard remained still and quiet, and for a short while the two of them simply sat, as the sibilant voices of distant shuttles echoed around them. Moments passed, and the softened voice of Sergeant Sheppard's was the first to break the silence.   
  
"Sir, I'm very grateful for everything you've said, but are you sure that you're all right?"  
  
"I'm fine, Sergeant. But it's a little late." said Ian. Weariness had overtaken him, and his own words had left his thoughts confused and chaotic. Once again there was too much feeling, and Ian felt that he would rather be alone. "And you've got work tomorrow. You'd best get a good night's sleep." he said.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Ian sat hunched forward, his arms resting on his knees, his hands clasped in front. Without moving, he spoke.  
  
"All right, then. Dismissed."  
  
Sergeant Sheppard rose to her feet, and after a brief glance downwards at Ian, she walked past, back towards the main entrance, and out of view.  
  
For a while longer, Ian sat there, alone now with only his own turbulent thoughts for company. He wondered if he would ever be able to tell another soul of his own problems. He wondered why it was that he had always had such tremendous difficulty in doing so in the past, and he thought about how he had never called Sergeant Sheppard by her first name.   
  
Time passed unnoticed, and after a time, Ian rose slowly to his feet, and began the walk back to his quarters. Outside, the last glinting edge of the Widow sun lingered briefly atop the basin's edge, and then disappeared.  



	13. Chapter 1: The Soldier - Part 12

  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER  
  
PART 12  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
  
Another night passed. At some point in the early hours, the air conditioning system shut down, and while repairs were done, Ian's room began to swelter in the humidity. The heat sent Ian drifting in and out of sleep, and what little he had was once again troubled by dark dreams. He dreamt that he stood beneath a vast red sky, as if it were late in the evening, and around were leagues upon leagues of rolling green farmland. He was but a small child cowering at the enormity of his surroundings, and suddenly, unbelievably, the sky above began to descend upon him like a drape, crimson and terrible. Fear pressed him to the ground, and as the heavens fell, he felt the cold hand of death in his gut. Closer and closer, the redness drew, and as it struck, crushing him between itself and the land, he felt nothing; he knew only that he had died, and yet, he was still afraid.   
  
Morning came, once again stealing any remembrance of his nightmare, but bringing painful memory of the previous day. Ian's mood was poor from the moment he opened his eyes. He washed and dressed, and after eating some food he had stowed in his pack, he left his quarters in the lower ring, and headed up towards the T.C.U. It was 0830. Today, he would be a spectator.  
  
The TacCon was a flurry of coordinated energy; it was the busiest he had seen it since his arrival. A few extra staff had been drafted in, and the two tactical officers, Lieutenant Platt and Lieutenant Greaves were making sure that every last one of them was assigned to a task. Corporal O'Hanlan was on duty, and had taken up his station as squad coordinator, while the rest of the staff prepared the sensor arrays and tactical subsystems of the mainframe. Of the two officers, Lieutenant Platt had taken it upon herself to occupy the Commander's chair, in Harold's absence, while Greaves worked at one of the terminals adjacent to Corporal O'Hanlan, presumably so he could keep an eye on him. The view screens at the front had all been activated at once, and were ablaze with video feeds and sensor test screens; the normally dark interior of the TacCon had been flooded with a cold, green tinted glow.  
  
As Ian walked past, O'Hanlan looked up briefly from his console, and the two exchanged nods. Ian got the impression that had their surroundings been less hectic, the young marine may have wanted to say more, perhaps to voice sympathies of some sort; Ian was averse to the idea, although he may have appreciated the thought, and decided it better that nothing was said. He stepped towards the rear of the room, at which point Lieutenant Platt spotted him, and promptly stood up.  
  
"Good morning, sir."  
  
Ian nodded briskly and then looked back towards the screens in front, squinting slightly in the emerald light.  
  
"Don't mind me, Lieutenant. Just carry on."  
  
Lieutenant Platt took her seat once again, retuning her attention to the chair console, while Ian walked slowly to the very rear of the room, and leant against the back wall. From here he could see almost the entire TacCon; little of the light from the front reached him, and as he stood in near darkness, he watched the surrounding activity from a bystander's point of view, unattached, uninvolved, and free from any responsibility. It wasn't a sensation which agreed with him, or disagreed for that matter; he felt a strange sort of isolation, as if part of him which he had never been aware of had been suddenly stripped away.  
  
Ian continued watching, and at a little after nine o'clock, one of the secondary view screens on the front wall blinked as it flicked between receiver channels. Ian took a few steps forward, and peered through the green haze, as a video feed from the Main Barracks' exit bay flashed across the screen. Ian could see arrayed within the dim chamber the three squads from his unit which made up the scouting party, now fully clad in CMC powered armour suits. The last time he had seen any CMC gear had been two tours previous to this one, when the Spider Monkeys had taken up station on the border world of Menires Tor, and their familiar shape and motion was instantly recognisable. A rough crackle of static forced its way out if the TacCon's wall speakers, and then abruptly stopped, as the husky voice of Commander Harold Bellamy rang through the TacCon.  
  
"This is Commander Bellamy. We're looking good to go, here; TacCon, give me an update, over."  
  
The motorized hum of Harold's powered suit buzzed faintly through the speakers. Lieutenant Platt leant over and replied into her console microphone.  
  
"All systems are optimal, sir. We're ready for you."  
  
Ian stepped forward again, and watched as the camera view zoomed closer in towards the assembled marines. He immediately noticed that all of the helmets of the CMC suits had been modified; a smallish protrusion was visible on the right side of each one, and as Ian scanned over the terminals in the centre of the TacCon, it became clear what they were. To accommodate Confederate Command's wishes to capture footage of the marines' activities, each CMC suit had apparently been fitted with a small camera, which would transmit a signal back to the T.C.U. A series of terminals and their adjoining screens had been reset to act as data receivers for the live video feeds; they were currently showing static, but as Ian watched, the marines activated their new recording devices, and one by one the small screens flicked on. Each one showed a perfect point of view camera angle from each member of the scouting party, and Ian looked over at the terminal screens to see the faces of his unit from close-up. There was a look of readiness in their eyes, and a gladness to be back in fighting gear again; and yet here and there, Ian caught a glimpse of apprehension or unsteadiness. He had worked with the men and women of the 141st for four years, and whilst no great affinity may have formed between them, they had grown very much accustomed to one another. Being suddenly put under the command of another officer was bound to be at least a little unnerving, but Ian had trained them to be prepared for anything; although he had never had this in mind, he was confident his unit would do their duty.  
  
In one screen he caught sight of the lively face of Sergeant Sheppard, who was already at work steadying the men and double-checking their gear. Over the terminals' speakers he caught a flash of a conversation between Sheppard and one of his unit; the marine had voiced her concerns about the change in command, and Sgt. Sheppard had done her usual good job in reassuring the men that all was well. She wore the same smile as the previous night, when the two of them had talked, and as Ian watched her preparing the unit, he felt his thoughts lighten a little.   
  
Lt. Cmdr. Verrasin was also present, and Ian was able to both see and hear him through the monitors; in blunt contrast to Harold's broad American drawl, and the Anglian accents of Sgt. Sheppard and the Spider Monkeys, his thin, nasal voice was of apparently European origin. Whatever his ancestry, he gave the impression of a skilled officer, and a confident XO.  
  
On the main bay camera, Ian watched the unit file towards the distribution alcove, as the newly arrived C-14 "Impaler" rifles were brought down on the conveyor belts. As the marines queued to pick up their weapons, Harold's voice sounded through the speakers once again.   
  
"Look sharp Tactical, we're almost set. Lieutenant Platt, has Commander Latimer reported in yet?"  
  
Lt. Platt acknowledged, and then looked around towards Ian, who stepped over to the nearest terminal with a com microphone.  
  
"I'm here, Commander Bellamy." he said.  
  
"Good morning! It's a fine unit you've got, Commander. And don't worry, I'll take good care of them. We're going to make some serious progress today."  
  
With so many other people about, both in the TacCon, and in the exit bay, there would be no discussion of their argument the night before. Harold's words were spoken cordially, and mostly for the benefit of those around, to show the bond of friendship and loyalty between high-ranking officers. He must have met Commander Murello by now, and had probably gone through the same routine with him. Ian imagined he had most likely avoided Commander Deist.  
  
Looking back over towards the video relay screens, Ian saw the continuing preparations within the exit bay. The monitors had already begun to record footage, and at some point in the future, it would be sent to one of the Military Relations divisions where it would be edited and spun into whatever promotional film they had in mind. As of now, the entire scouting party was effectively "on TV", and Ian expected that Harold would be making the odd uplifting speech or canny remark to add a little glamour to the proceedings. He had seen Harold in Confederate film reports before. In a similar way to how politicians might have a press team to help develop good publicity, it was apparent that Harold had been coached at least in some way, in how to act whilst in front of the cameras. When out of the spotlight, Ian was sure that he would be the consummate professional, but as soon as the recording started, Harold adopted a slightly different, almost artificial persona; he gave a thoroughly effective image of the daring and heroic Confederate Commander to send to the folks back home.   
  
Ian's anger at the situation had subsided; and after the previous night, his weary sense of detachment had lingered on to some degree, and suddenly the thought of no responsibility seemed somewhat welcome. He leaned over again to the microphone.  
  
"Good luck, Commander."  
  
"Much obliged, Commander." came Harold's reply, "Okay, Tactical. We're on our way out."  
  
The electrified groan of the main bay gate reverberated across the speakers as it opened, and with Harold and Lt. Cmdr. Verassin out in front, the party made its way through the access tunnel, and out into the morning sun. The day was hot, as usual, but the air was disturbed by a growing wind from the south, which had already begun to whip up sand and dirt.  
  
Harold had arranged for three of the vulture riders to act as escort for the day's work, one of whom was Sgt. Gleason, and through the helmet cameras of the marines, Ian saw the three hover bikes parked outside the Barracks' exit ramp. After a brief rendezvous, the riders hurtled off to secure the route ahead as usual, while the marines began the slow march northwest; up out of the basin, and across the plains towards the caverns. With movement now aided by CMC servomechanisms, and the blistering heat of the Widow sun now negated within a controlled temperature power suit, the marines' journey would be a great deal less strenuous.   
  
Ian returned to his hideaway at the rear of the TacCon, and settling against the back wall, he resumed his silent observation of events; events, which only the day before, he had been in sole control of.  
  
The route was covered at a steady, determined pace, and Ian took casual note as he observed the tactical staff going about their work. He had rarely watched them specifically; in the usual order of things, they performed their duties in the background, stepping into sight only to receive his orders, and to provide him with important tactical information. As Lieutenants Platt and Greaves directed them, they worked swiftly and efficiently, testing systems, monitoring readouts and ensuring that every eventuality was prepared for. Even though much of it was overkill; the relatively small number of troops being coordinated meant that most of the staff were simply double or even triple checking each task, Ian was still quietly impressed with the apparent efficiency with which they went about their work, and struggled to find a member of the staff who wasn't engaged in one chore or another.  
  
Ian turned his attention back to the video feeds, and watching through the monitors, he walked the route alongside his men. As they looked about them, Ian saw what they saw; The pale morning sky, the distant mountain range to the northwest, the spidery trails in the sand left by the cutting winds which blew at their backs; all were now familiar signs to Ian, who had travelled the route several times in the past two weeks. Part of him wished that he were out there now, in the gusting sand, leading his men. He felt shame of a sort, about his current predicament, and the stigma of having another officer command his unit had pressed to the front of his mind. He carried on watching, as the marines, with the wind at their heels, continued their slow march into the desert.   
  
An hour and a half had passed, when the scouting party finally arrived at the rocky plateau; after which they advanced on ahead, and down into the wide, stony pit which enclosed the cavern entrances. The three vulture riders brought their bikes to a stop at the edge of the pit, and took up watch. Within the TacCon, the archived map of the tunnels stored in the mainframe was brought on-line, and O'Hanlan readied his console to begin directing the squads. The rest of the staff continued working, monitoring sensor readings and checking tactical systems, while Ian kept a keen watch on the scout team.  
  
Harold split the party up into the three squads of which it was comprised, with each squad being led by one of the three officers present. After sending the other two groups ahead to the tunnel entrances in the northern and eastern sides of the pit, Harold stood on the verge of one of the openings in the centre, and activated the shoulder-mounted flashlights on his armour. Being fed by a much higher wattage than ordinary, gun mounted torches, the twin flashlights carved a wide gleaming shaft down into the blackness ahead. Ian half expected Harold to stop and take a moment to deliver some corny sound bite, but instead, Harold only looked back to check over his squad, and simply said:  
  
"Okay, let's go, people." and headed inside.   
  
After a brief lull in activity, the TacCon came alive once again, as the staff went about assisting O'Hanlan's efforts in tracking the three squads. Having performed this duty on a regular basis during the last two weeks, he had become quite proficient at it, and guided the marines through the caverns, to the points where each of the previous squads from Murello's unit had left off. Underground, and cloaked in darkness, the marines resumed their grim search; Ian sat against an illuminated handrail at the rear of the TacCon, and watched events unfold.   
  
With each marine now wearing a CMC suit, tracking them through the caverns was made that much easier. Each suit had a radio set integrated into the helmet, as well as its own sophisticated signal booster, which drew power from the suit's primary energy coil. Effectively, it extended the range around the marines into which the base's sensors could penetrate, giving the Tactical staff a wider view when monitoring them on the sensor scope, although the heavy ionic compounds in the ground were still preventing them from scanning any other regions of the caverns.   
As they worked their way deeper underground, the marines lowered their visors and activated their air purifiers, which quickly went to work filtering the toxic elements from the air. Across the radio channels, the low hum of powered armour echoed faintly inside the tunnels, as well as the sporadic com chatter of the marines as squad mates communicated with one another and with the TacCon. With torches blazing, the Spider Monkeys pushed onwards into the darkness.   
  
Below ground, and hidden from the sun, time passed unseen for the marines, and ground was covered at an insistent pace; far above them as they worked, the sun rose to its peak, and began its downward arc.   
  
Hours drew slowly by, and by 1800, almost fifty kilometres of tunnel had been uncovered. Corporal O'Hanlan and the rest of the staff had been kept busy coordinating the teams, and recording all of the new terrain data; the cavern map had expanded further than had been expected for one outing. With their movement assisted by CMC armour, the marines had been able to cover an extra ten kilometres of ground, but even so, were nearing the end of their strength. Ian had moved over to one of the sensor terminals, and had been following the party's progress on one of the contact displays. The squads, which showed up as small green blips on the display, had spread fairly far apart, and had indeed uncovered great lengths of unexplored tunnel.   
  
Imagining that Harold would pull the team out within the next hour or so, Ian decided not to stick around; he had watched enough for one day, and had no particular desire to watch them trudge back to base. Having resolved to return to his quarters, and perhaps carry on with some reading, he stepped between a couple of the tactical staff to use the com microphone at an adjacent terminal. Feeling obliged to inform Sergeant Sheppard that he was retiring for the day, and to give Harold a congratulatory word or two about his good progress, Ian hooked into the internal squad channel used by the scouting party. While he did so, a nearby receiver console audibly relayed the radio signals from within squad number two, which Lt. Cmdr Verrasin had taken charge of. Ian was about to open the channel when the nearby radio chatter from the squad caught his ear, as one of the marines cried out. He turned his ear to listen in, and a commotion came through the radio feed from the marines.  
  
"What going on?" said the voice of Lt. Cmdr Verassin through the relay speaker.  
  
"It's all right sir." Ian instantly recognised the voice of Private Stephen Dawes, one of the longer serving members of the Spider Monkeys, "Don't worry, it's just Private Chimes. I think he tripped."  
  
"Chimes!" shouted Verassin.  
  
"Sorry, sir." came the muffled voice of Private Chimes, along with the sound of shuffling, presumably as the marine pulled himself to his feet.  
  
Ian glanced over to the video feed, and put pictures to the sounds. Squad two had apparently entered another large cavern chamber, and had been traversing the chamber's floor, when Chimes had fallen.  
  
"Watch your step," said Verassin, "there's a lot of loose rocks on the ground to trip on, keep your torches down when you walk."  
  
"Sir, I didn't trip, I slipped on something…"  
  
"What?"  
  
As Verassin's voice paused, Ian looked over at the video screens. A flurry of flashlight beams bathed the ground around Private Chimes' feet as the other marines in the squad turned to see. A thick, wet glistening substance could be seen mired around the boots of the young marines armour. Ian watched from the viewpoint of another marine, as Chimes looked downwards.  
  
"Oh God, that's…"  
  
Chimes' voice shivered through the speaker, and Ian's heart stopped as the thought of what was on the ground struck him.  
  
"Oh no, wait." Came chimes' voice, "It's Okay, it's, heh, it's just mud. Hey, wait a minute..."  
  
"Mud?" asked Verassin.  
  
"It is!" shouted one of the other marines, "Hey, woah! We've got mud down here!"  
  
Ian could see Lt. Cmdr Verassin walk back to examine the ground, and then heard his voice once again.  
  
"That's confirmed, it's mud, damn it! Tactical, we have definite high levels of moisture here!"  
  
A few of the tactical staff had also been listening in on the conversation, and had alerted the two officers. Lieutenant Greaves stepped over to the video terminals to see what had caused the excitement. Upon seeing the wide, shiny patch on the sandy chamber floor, he nodded, a wide grin crossing his lips. Tapping into the squad channel, he spoke into his headset through to Lt. Cmdr Verrasin.  
  
"This is Greaves, we copy, Lieutenant Commander. Please stand by."   
  
Greaves quickly turned to the tracking console, where Corporal O'Hanlan was sitting, and checked squad two's position.   
  
Ian took a step forward. Moisture in quantities like this meant one thing. The marines knew that there was no water in those caverns, not naturally occurring, at any rate; any moisture present would have to be the result of a chemical reaction. There were copious amounts of various gases and solid compounds in the tunnels, but in the two weeks they had been scouting the caverns, there had been no hint of any moisture; finding mud was a clear sign that a new chemical was present, and nearby.  
  
Lieutenant Greaves turned aside and spoke into his headset once again.  
  
"Lieutenant Commander, I recommend you perform a P.F.M. scan of the area to…"  
  
"Already being done, Tactical, stand by." Said Verassin over the radio.  
  
A moment after, his voice came through again, edged with excitement.  
  
"Tactical, it's confirmed. We have very high levels of vespene compounds in the mud, as well as cerodite and exfilium deposits. my God, this mud's almost saturated with it!"  
  
"Copy that, sir."  
  
Verassin quickly tracked the moisture back to its source; a large region of the western wall of the chamber was caked with the same thick mud, and the floors of half a dozen passages which cut into the side were coated with it.  
  
"All right, we have to be close, by God" came Verassin's voice as he spoke to the squad, "Split up into two man teams and fan out. Our objective must lie in one of these adjoining tunnels. I have a box of Truscan cigars in my quarters; the first team to strike gold may help me smoke them! Now, go!"  
  
In the TacCon, Lieutenant Greaves had patched through to the other two squads, notifying them of what had happened; Harold was the first to reply back.  
  
"God sakes! That's it, has to be! Tactical, squad one and I are about a mile and a half away, and are on route to Verassin's position." said Harold with a hearty voice.  
  
Greaves acknowledged, and then relayed the message to squad two. Meanwhile, Sergeant Sheppard and squad three had checked in with O'Hanlan; they were also about a mile and a half from squad two, and after having circled through the tunnels in a wide arc during the day's scouting, had ended up fairly close to Harold and his squad.   
  
"Roger that, Tactical, we're on our way in," came Sergeant Sheppard's voice across the com, "Commander Bellamy's only a few tunnels over from us; we'll head over to his position and join up."  
  
Ian observed as squads one and three raced towards Verassin's position, while the marines of squad two dispersed, and began to hunt down the moisture's origin. Watching the readouts on the sensor screens, and then turning to the video feeds, all the while listening to the voices of the scouting party over the radio, Ian's heart began to quicken. The same anticipation, which drove the marines deep underground to cast off the fatigue of a heavy day's work, had gained hold of him as well. Trudging through the dark, day after day in search of the objective, and now, finally, it was within arm's reach. Sergeant Sheppard and squad three bounded into one of the tunnels ahead of Commander Bellamy, and the two squads continued on together, now still a mile or so from Lieutenant Commander Verassin.   
  
The mood in the TacCon lifted perceivably, but it had passed Ian by. This glory, this triumph, what little there was to be had in finding minerals and gas, might have been his; but he felt no jealousy for it. He was a battered man, and quite without sufficient energy to feel jealousy; his resolve was broken. He felt weary, and could not shake the feeling of loss which had settled into him. As the chase continued, Ian stepped down towards Corporal O'Hanlan, still fairly busy directing the squads movement. He looked up at Ian, and turned, as if to acknowledge him, but Ian shook his head, motioning for him to stay focused on his duties. Deep below ground, squad two continued to scour the tunnels, while Ian and the rest of the staff watched, and listened.  



	14. Chapter 1: The Soldier - Part 13

  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER  
  
PART 13  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
  
"Come on, come on…where the bloody hell are you?" Whispered one of the Spider Monkeys.  
  
Four pairs of small video screens showed the slow advance of the marines, as they drove forward, seeking their objective.   
  
"Damn it." came the voice of one of the others, "Bloody dead end."  
  
Ian looked over to one side of the screen bank; one of the pairs, Privates Turner and Higson, had struck the end of their tunnel with no luck, and began back to the chamber. As Ian watched them walk back, Higson's viewpoint swayed a little, as if he was having trouble keeping a foothold in the cloying mud.  
  
"Watch it, Mike." warned his squad mate.   
  
Ian saw Higson's hand reach out in front and to the side to steady himself. At this point, he stopped walking.  
  
"Hey Mike, what are you doing?"  
  
What Private Turner hadn't seen, nor indeed had Ian or O'Hanlan, or any of the other tactical staff watching through the monitors, was that Higson's hand hadn't stopped when it hit the tunnel's side; it had gone right through.   
  
"God, look at this, Paul." He said.   
  
As he turned his head to see his own arm, which had gone through the wall up to his wrist, Ian and the others could see that the side of that particular tunnel was evidently only a few inches thick.   
  
"Come on Mike, let's get this down!"  
  
The two marines used the butts of their rifles to punch holes in the thin, dried wall of the passage, and then used their hands to tear away the rest, until a fair sized hole, large enough for one of them to pass through, at least, had been made. Stepping in front, Private Turner aimed his shoulder lamps into the cavity beyond; there was apparently yet another chamber, the floor of which could be seen beyond the opening, and with his rifle raised, he stepped through, Higson following on behind. Turner tilted his lamps upwards as they crept forward, and here and there, the beams met a solid surface, which sent the light gleaming and flashing back.  
  
"Wait…flares." said Higson, cautiously.   
  
Retrieving a flare pack from his suit's belt, he lit them all at once, and then separating them into individual sticks, he hurled them upwards out in front. After a few seconds, a thick rasping filled the air as the flares ignited, sending a cloud of red light into the chamber.  
  
"Oh, Jesus."   
  
Turner's sentiment was silently echoed by those observing in the TacCon. In front of the two marines lay the illuminated interior of the chamber, which was easily the largest which had been uncovered thus far; and lining not only the floor, but the walls and even the ceiling, and lying in great blossoming stacks which reached all the way to the top of the chamber, were hulking clusters of mineral crystals. As well as the red blush thrown off by the flares, there was a drifting pale green haze which lay further back; as the two marines walked on, and shined their lamps into the gloom, in the middle of a wide, shallow basin, a thick spouting jet of vespene gas could be seen forcing its way through the chamber's floor.   
  
The tactical staff had paused momentarily to observe the progress of the two marines, and upon seeing the objective for themselves, broke into spontaneous applause.   
  
Within the chamber, Turner opened his squad channel.  
  
"Private Turner to Lieutenant Commander Verassin, do you read?"  
  
"This had better be the news I think it is, Private."  
  
"Affirmative, sir. We've located the objective; heavy concentrations of mineral deposits and vespene gas."  
  
"My God, good work! All right, squad two, everybody get over there. Let's see it for ourselves."  
  
Corporal O'Hanlan patched a line through to Commander Bellamy, and promptly informed him of the news.  
  
"Ha! God damn it, that's it, we got it! Inform Lieutenant Commander Verassin that we're three minutes away, and Greaves, you tell that son of a gun not to start celebrating until I get there!" said Harold with a hearty voice.   
  
Greaves gave a broad grin, and then passed the message on, while Ian returned to the com microphone, and spoke through on the open frequency.  
  
"Congratulations Commander Bellamy." he said.  
  
"Thank you, Commander Latimer, but I think we all deserve those congratulations. Everybody, job well done, damn well done. But remember, we've still got a lot of work to do."  
  
The tactical staff responded well to Harold's praise, and while they carried on with their work, Ian went back to watching the members of squad two. Within a minute of Private Turner announcing the discovery, the rest of the squad had circled around, and entered through into the chamber. All eight of them, as well as Lieutenant Commander Verassin were standing at the front end, near the makeshift entrance, staring in awe at the sight before them. Private Helen Copeland gave a whistle.  
  
"God," she said, as she drew her eyes over the deep blue mineral deposits, which had formed over the millennia into a series of abstract and almost beautiful shapes, "that ought to do it."  
  
"All right people, let's see how far back this goes." said Verassin, as he started off further into the chamber. While the other squad members fanned out and pushed further in, Ian turned away from the screens. The work had been done, the objective had been found. He had been without responsibility of command for less than a day, and unsurprisingly, he had not adapted well to the change. He was a fish out of water, and would likely be so for the entirety of this campaign; and once again, he was without options of any kind.   
  
Ian turned around to leave the T.C.U., and as he started on his way out, almost idly, he gave one last look at the video monitors, one last listen to his unit for the day. The first sound he heard was a wet squelch; the sound of someone skidding.  
  
"Mike, you alright?" Said the voice of Private Jill Forbes.  
  
"Whoa. Yeah, heh, I'm all right. It's this bloody mud."  
  
Mike Higson's helmet camera panned down to his feet.  
  
"It's, hey this- this isn't mud. What…Uhh, oh God it's cree-"  
  
Ian had almost walked past the video relay terminal when he heard these last few words, followed by what sounded like metal being scratched. He froze, and then peered around to see what Higson was doing. The voices of his squad mates continued.  
  
"What did you say? Mike? Hey, Tom, where is he?"  
  
"He was just there," The video image from Private Thomas Shirlaw's helmet camera spun, as he looked around behind him, "just behind me. I sss…nnggg."  
  
"Tom, what-"  
  
Ian took a step back. At first glance is appeared that two of the monitors for squad two's video feeds had simply gone blank. Ian looked over to Private Forbes' monitor, and from somewhere off to the right, a shadow flashed across the camera view; the screen remained dark. Ian barely got a word out.  
  
"What's…"  
  
A noise shot through the radio channel that snapped everyone in the TacCon to stunned attention. The loud, single crack of a rifle discharge; it caused almost everyone to flinch with shock, and all eyes suddenly and rapidly turned to the video monitors. Perhaps half a second passed, when one of the speakers screamed.  
  
"AaaGETITOFFMMM-"  
  
In the next second, the screen relaying a feed from Verassin's camera shook, as the Lieutenant Commander ran back towards the others, the frantic sound of his heavy breathing rasping through the speakers, and off to one side before Verassin had seen it, was the obscured shape of a figure lying prone on the ground. All around him, a viscous, glistening fluid that wasn't mud was seeping across the chamber floor. A stride closer, and Verassin, having spotted the figure on the ground, turned his head to look at it. Through the shaking camera, and the haze of darkness, Ian had trouble identifying exactly what he was seeing; a fraction of a second later, a foot or two closer, and the shapes came into focus. Private Higson lay on the ground, his right leg ripped away above the knee, twisting violently as a man-sized creature reached through his shattered helmet visor with horrifically clawed forelimbs, and ripped his face apart.  
  
Perhaps eight seconds had passed since Ian had heard the sound of scratching metal. His stomach had turned to ice. There was a nickname that the Anglian military had given to what was on the screen. They called them "little red bastards"; it was a gesture of defiance, wasted on an enemy who didn't even understand the concept, not to mention inaccurate, as experience had shown that many were not red at all, but were purple or green or even white. And at this moment, the one in front of Lt. Cmdr. Verassin, although it was reddish in colour, didn't seem very little at all. The American marines had a name for them as well, a much more widely used name; and it was the last word to leave Verassin's lips.  
  
"God, zerglingsaaAAA-"  
  
With alien speed, it leapt, another of its kind pouncing from behind. Verassin went down hard, and as metal was sliced open, his finger twitched against his rifle trigger, sending the horrific sound of automatic gunfire thundering through the cavern.  
Nine seconds had now passed. Weeks with no enemy contact had slowed the reactions of almost everyone present. Four marines were down; the enemy had been sighted. Lieutenant Platt was the first to react.  
  
"Contact! I repeat, enemy contact! Four men down, set TacCon to red alert!"  
  
The air glowed as illuminator strips around the TacCon shone bright crimson. In front, Corporal O'Hanlan was about to make contact with squad two, when Lieutenant Greaves shoved him to one side and took over as squad coordinator.  
  
"Squad two! Squad two! Please report!" he yelled into his headset.  
  
On the monitors, four of the remaining five members of squad two had apparently been cornered along the side of the cavern, and were firing into the darkness at signs of movement that the video cameras could only barely pick up; the roaring chatter of Impalers blasted across the TacCon's speakers, accompanied by the nightmarish screeches of their targets. The fifth marine was running along one side of the chamber, his four squad mates some twenty yards in front of him; when his surroundings spun as he was brought down and set upon.  
  
"TacCon! We're under attack!" spat the voice of Private Turner, pausing intermittently to fire his weapon, "Enemy units have taken the objective! It's, it's filled with them!"  
  
Lieutenant Greaves had connected through to Commander Bellamy, who was still about half a mile from squad two.  
  
"Commander! We have enemy contact!"   
  
"What?"  
  
"Squad two is under assault, four, no five men are down!"  
  
"God damn it! Tell them to hold their position, we're on our way!"  
  
Lieutenant Greaves quickly switched the channel over to squad two.  
  
"Squad two, Squad two! Hold your position, I repeat, hold your position! Squads one and three are en route to reinforce! Squad two, do you copy?"  
  
"Copy, TacCon!" came Turner's dim voice, muffled by near continuous weapons fire. In the midst of the hellish din, a distant sound was heard; a faint hiss of breath. Turner's video feed panned upwards as he looked at the cavern wall above where they were standing. Almost too quickly to see, a hideous mesh of shadowed forms fell from the darkness above. There was a sudden rush of movement, and amid the chaotic snapping of rifle fire, escaped the muffled, sickly sound of butchery. Within a second every video feed left from squad two had gone blank. Lieutenant Platt wasted little time.  
  
"Commander Bellamy! Squad two is down! I repeat, squad two is down! Recommend you withdraw, immediately!"  
  
Harold replied breathlessly, an edge of tension in his voice.  
  
"Jesus! Copy that TacCon, show us the way out!"   
  
The entire group came to a halt in the darkness of the tunnel, while in the TacCon, Lieutenant Greaves flashed his eyes over the cavern map, and cross-referenced it with the marines' position.  
  
"Sir, take the tunnel behind you, the first one leading off to the right!"  
  
"Got it, TacCon! We are heading back to the surface!"  
  
Greaves glanced from display to display, searching for the quickest way back to ground level. Over at the other side of the TacCon, one of the staff called over to Lieutenant Platt.  
  
"Sir, we've got sensor contact!"  
  
"Show me!" barked Platt as she jogged across the TacCon to see.  
  
"There, sir. Squad two's suits are still boosting the sensor signal…there!"  
  
On the display, literally dozens of contact blips were funnelling out of the mineral chamber into the corridors around, and heading through the tunnels in one direction, before they faded from the sensor's reach.  
  
"God, they're heading right for them," gasped Lieutenant Platt. "Greaves, get them out of there!"   
  
"I'm working on it, damn it! Commander, there should be another junction about thirty metres ahead. Take the passage on the left, and carry on-"  
  
"Wait, that's wrong!"  
  
Corporal O'Hanlan sprang forward, and pointed to the map screen.  
  
"Sir, that's not the right way! It's too far around, th-"  
  
"Shut up Corporal!" snapped Greaves, as he turned back to the map.  
  
"But, sir! I know these caverns!" insisted O'Hanlan, "There's a much quicker-"  
  
"Damn it," yelled Greaves, "I said shut your fuckin' hole!!"  
  
For the past few seconds, Ian's world had been spinning. It has started when his gut had frozen; the realisation that eight members of his unit had been slaughtered in front of his eyes had sent him into a hazy light-headedness. In the space of only a few seconds, his thoughts had raced. Was this fear that he felt? He had endured and survived dozens, even hundreds of combat engagements during his career, and had felt nothing like this. Once again, it had felt as though he were some bodiless spirit, detached from himself, watching his own demise. And then, he realised that he couldn't afford to be detached; the enemy was here, now, and his unit was under attack. He had to regain control. Suddenly, the slumbering soldier within awoke, and pierced through the haze like a streaking firebrand.   
  
"Stand away, Lieutenant." Said Ian, stepping forward.  
  
Lieutenant Greaves jerked his head around towards him, a look of frenzied defiance in his eyes.  
  
"Sir? You can't-"  
  
"Lieutenant stand away NOW!"  
  
Lieutenant Greaves flinched as Ian's voice tore through him. He took a single step back, as O'Hanlan darted in and put his headset on.  
  
"TacCon? What's going on up there, do you copy?" came Harold's livid voice across the speaker.  
  
"Commander! Disregard the last message! Carry straight on, Straight on!" cried O'Hanlan into his microphone.  
  
"Wha, God damn it! All right, TacCon, I copy!" replied Harold.  
  
Lieutenant Platt yelled into her microphone once again.  
  
"Commander, be advised, hostiles are on your tail and are closing fast!"  
  
The next voice to come across the radio was from Sergeant Sheppard.  
  
"Commander Bellamy! We've got to split up," she shouted, "give them two targets instead of one!"  
  
"Go to it, Sergeant, I'll see you on the outside!" came Harold's puffing reply.  
  
Ian glanced at the map screen to see the route that O'Hanlan had rapidly marked out for them to take, and spoke through into the console microphone in front.  
  
"Sergeant."  
  
"Yes, sir!" Sergeant Sheppard's voice was tinged with fear, but also a marked gladness to hear her commander's voice again.  
  
"Cut right at the next opening" said Ian, "It runs parallel to the route the others are taking…and watch yourself!"  
  
"Roger that sir, squad three cut right!"  
  
Ian watched on the monitors, as eight of the fleeing marines, led by Sergeant Sheppard, flung themselves through a tunnel opening on the right, and sprinted on, their lamps cutting flailing beams into the darkness ahead. Adrenaline surged as they flew from peril, scant seconds separating them from the enemy behind. Suddenly, a warning alarm in the TacCon sounded a sensor contact in the marines' proximity, but one of them had already spotted it; Private Graham Smalls, running at the rear of Sergeant Sheppard's squad, twisted around as he ran, flicking his gaze behind him. A distant blur of movement brought him skidding to a stop.  
  
"Contact! Little red bastards, right behind us!" he yelled, as he brought his rifle around to bear on their pursuers. The other marines ahead instantly stopped in their tracks, and Sergeant Sheppard screamed out.  
  
"Smalls! Get your arse down!"  
  
Smalls threw himself forward onto his knee; opening fire as he did so, while the two marines behind him swung their rifles up and fired over his head. Gauss fire perforated the tunnel space behind them, and in the glare of their lamps, as well as the muzzle flashes from their rifles, the Spider Monkeys caught sight of their enemy. Horrifically developed alien forms jerked and convulsed as weapons fire ripped through them. The bladed nightmares died shrieking and squealing, and the carcasses of those in front were torn apart by the ones behind as the heaving murderous throng pressed forward.   
  
A second proximity alarm sounded out in the TacCon, and Ian saw on the sensor screen that some of the hostiles had spilled over into the tunnel that Harold and squad one had taken, and were in fast pursuit. The squad had spotted the enemy on their tail, and Harold shouted across the radio for them to engage.  
  
"Squad! Stand your ground! Turn and fi-"  
  
Suddenly a third alarm sounded, and across the speakers, the same devilish hiss could be heard. On the video screen, Harold's lamps shone on into the gloom, lighting up the tunnel in front. Harold staggered to a halt, and gasped sharply.   
  
O'Hanlan's route had been quicker, and he had been right to contest Greaves' direction, but it was to no avail. Running at inhuman speed, the enemy had overtaken the marines along an adjacent corridor, and cut back into the passage ahead of them; jagged bodies, crawling across the walls and ceiling of the passage, flew into the light and leapt forward. With a curse, Harold lit up the tunnel with the rippling flash of his Impaler; as his rifle swung, two of the screeching shapes were eviscerated in the barrage, a third crashed into Harold, knocking him back and down to the ground. While two of the Spider Monkeys behind opened fire into the scuttling mass ahead of them, Private Phillip Beeley, who had been running directly behind Harold, grabbed hold of his arm as he fell, dragging him back. The thrashing figure that had cannoned into Harold lay almost on top of him; with one hand, Private Beeley thrust his rifle into the creature's torso and opened fire.   
  
Watching in the TacCon, Ian saw the hideous shape flung backwards; a wrecked, bloody mass. Harold's armour had been shredded across the chest by the alien's claws, and even through the juddering video relay, Ian could see that he had been injured; thin, glistening trails of red spilled out from the cracks in his chest plate.   
  
On the other monitors, squad three continued defending their position as the enemy advanced. The marines moved slowly back as they fired, swapping positions as rifles were reloaded. The hissing, crawling pack edged on, wading through the fleshy piles of their dead lying in front, occasionally making it close enough to spring forward, before being cut down. Ian was aware that it was only a matter of time before the marines ran out of ammunition, but knew that the moment they turned to run, they would be slaughtered. He, and those others watching were powerless to help; the marines were some eight miles distant, and cut off from any reinforcement.   
  
At that moment, somewhere off to the side of the screen that Ian had his eyes on, was a stir of bloodied movement, as a pack of howling beasts erupted through the tunnel wall, and ploughed into the midst of the squad.  
  
The video feeds from squad one flashed white as gauss rifles flared in the dark. Harold's team was firing in both directions: ahead of, as well as behind them. They were caught like rabbits in a den, as their vile assailants closed in on either side.   
  
Beeley had pulled Harold back into the middle of the group, and was laying down fire at the enemy surging towards them from ahead. Their pursuers behind had closed to within ten feet, and pushed on, each forerunner buckling under the hail of thundering fire, before another slashed its way past. Closer and closer they pressed; Private David Freeman stood at the very rear of the squad, supported by Privates Clift and Newey, firing burst after burst into the approaching drove. Freeman yelled a curse as they broke through the battery of fire and leapt forward into the rear of the group. In the video screens, a chaotic, bloody melee ensued; Freeman was the first to fall, as two of the creatures drove into his armour with scythe-like claws, and hacked at his shoulder and torso. He died screaming as his left arm was ripped clear of his body; Newey staggered back, still discharging his weapon into the enemy, when three of the pack drove him down into the tunnel floor. Clift resumed a furious defence; firing continuously first into the three nearest creatures, and then into the advancing pack behind, he bought a few precious seconds more for those behind.   
  
Ian winced as he saw Clift's wild rifle fire tear into Newey's savaged corpse; he could see no escape. His gut turned to ice as he watched, and turning back to the screens of squad three, his heart sank. Two of the screens had stopped receiving feeds, a third camera stared straight up, still and unmoving; the wet, grisly sounds of carnage continued to filter through the speakers. Ian's heart hammered like a piston as he saw what was happening.   
  
Those creatures which had broken through the side of the tunnel mere seconds before had slain three of the squad with lightning swipes of their claws before being gunned down, but the chaos had given the hideous mob behind the marines the opportunity to cover the distance between them. A brutal close quarter struggle had erupted as the squad began to fire into their midst at the enemy. With a demon's screech, one of them leapt forward, pinning Private Smalls to the ground with its forelimbs. Sgt. Sheppard issued a cry of rage as she peppered the gruesome beast across its back, sending it reeling. Reaching down, she dragged Smalls back to the relative safety of the side of the tunnel. In the TacCon, Ian called into his microphone.  
  
"Sergeant, Run! Now! Get out of there!"  
  
Sergeant Sheppard gasped into her radio, raising her rifle again to fire as she did so.  
  
"Sir, I...iiaagg-"  
  
As Ian watched the video feed from Sergeant Sheppard's camera, a rushing shape obscured the screen, and the image shook. A muffled thump and the sound of cracking and scratching followed through the speakers. Ian's wavering voice was lost in the rising commotion within the TacCon.  
  
"Whu- Lorraine? Oh, please God, no…"  
  
Sixty metres away, and two video screens across, the survivors of squad two were being pressed closer together by the enemy on both of their sides. Clift and Private Cooknall had been engulfed by the rushing mass of claws and hooked fangs; their broken bodies lay somewhere beneath the alien tide which continued on into the blazing muzzle of Beeley's rifle. In front, Private Wilson watched as his squad mates ahead of him, Privates Bowen and Hurley were pounced on by two of the slavering beasts. Trying to pull Hurley free with one arm, he fired with the other, only to be set upon himself by two more of the creatures. The sandy floor of the tunnel ran thick with blood, as the marines' armour was penetrated, and three more lives ended beneath the aliens' slashing blades.   
  
Beeley glanced back over his shoulder to find that only he and Commander Bellamy remained, and turning back around, he was thrown to the ground by the lead attackers, who had dodged around his rifle fire. As his abdomen was sliced open, his dying murmur was lost beneath the creatures' hellish baying. Ian stared blankly at the screens for squad three; not one remained active.   
  
Harold's wheezing voice whispered through the speakers.  
  
"Ian…"  
  
"Harry, Jesus, hold on. Just hang on," said Ian through a dry throat, "we're coming after you. Just…"  
  
"Nuh- no. No, s'too late for that, I think."  
  
More than anything, Ian wished that he could see his friend's face, but he couldn't. All he could see was what Harold saw, as he lay on the floor of the shadowy tunnel: the skulking figures of clawed demons drawing ever closer. The TacCon had frozen in silence as Harold's voice sounded across his radio.  
  
"Ian, you…you were right. It was your command. I'm sorry, Jesus, I shouldn't have taken it. I'm sorry."  
  
"Oh God, Harry, please…" whispered Ian into his microphone.  
  
"I'm sorry I took your unit."  
  
Harold's video feed shook violently, as a blurry form streaked past. The sharp, wet sound of a hacking blade shot through the speaker; Ian thought he heard the sickly sound of a throat gurgling, when the speaker, and the video feed lost their signal.  
  
"Harry? HARRY!"  
  
Ian's scream cut through the silence like a bullet; all of the staff had been shocked into numbness by what they had just witnessed, and were now looking at him, as he stared open mouthed at the lifeless monitors. For a long moment, the silence hung heavily in the air. Eventually, Ian straightened himself, and then stepped back, his chest heaving slowly as he panted.   
  
"All right," he said, his voice broken and breathless, "we're going out there."  
  
"What?" hollered Lieutenant Platt.  
  
Ian spun around to face her, his eyes frantic, "There've got to be survivors. We can't just leave them there!"  
  
"Sir, there's no one! There's no survivors!" shouted Platt.  
  
"You heard what I said!" snapped Ian, "Get, Get the other units suited up with whatever's left in the armoury. We're going out, damn it! I'm not going to just..."  
  
"Commander Latimer, Sir!"   
  
The voice was O'Hanlan's. Ian turned back to see a look of abject fear in his eyes.  
  
"Sir, they're gone. they're all gone."  
  
Ian stood still, while every other person in the TacCon watched him. He could see the fear of a young boy in O'Hanlan's expression; the fear of a boy forced to grow up too soon. Ian knew, that for all of his years, all of his experience, as he saw the look in O'Hanlan's eyes, he knew; that he might has well have been staring into a mirror.   
  
His breathing slowed, and looking about him, he saw the expectant faces of the men and women of the tactical staff. This had been the last thing that any one of them had expected to happen. They could have endlessly argued the validity of the Confederate ComSat surveys that had found zero enemy activity on this planet, but it wouldn't achieve anything. His head slowly hung, and in that moment, sense returned to him. There was no time to grieve, no time for self-pity or for recklessness; it was time for him to be a soldier, once again.  
  
"Lieutenant Platt." Said Ian, his voice low and steady.  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
"Get Sergeant Gleason and the other riders on the line, pull them back to base immediately, then get in touch with Commander Murello and Commander Deist, and inform them of recent events. We must assume that the enemy is on their way here. That gives us approximately thirty minutes to mount a defence." Ian turned back to Corporal O'Hanlan, "Get every marine on the base equipped and ready in five minutes, tool up with whatever's left; take it all, armour, rifles, grenades, gear is to be allocated by detail. Those squads acting on point will be equipped with the remaining CMC suits, as well as the Impalers. Get to it."  
  
After a pause to collect themselves, the staff went back to their posts, and began to organise the base's defence. As the activity in the TacCon resumed, Ian looked back at the video monitors one last time, and then quickly walked out.   
  



	15. Chapter 1: The Soldier - Part 14

  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER  
  
PART 14  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
  
Fort Sunderland was placed on full alert. Maintenance and technical crews around the base sprinted through red flashing corridors towards their positions, to prepare for the coming attack. In the Main Barracks, the two remaining units of marines rushed through into the secondary armoury, acquiring their gear from the distribution points directly outside it, before hurrying down into the exit bay.   
  
After taking the first available shuttle to the Barracks, Ian ran inside, and up to the secondary armoury. Marines inside made way for him as he collected his gear; those men on the front of the defensive line had already been equipped, and Ian took his armament from what was left, a CM-16d "Shredder" machine gun, as well as survival gear, a light supply belt and a headset. Alarms whined, and the dark interior of the Barracks flared a dull red in the glow of alert bulbs on the walls and ceiling.   
  
Having been deliberating the situation in his mind, Ian had come to a decision. He had hoped to be able to resolve this crisis somehow, but the gnawing instinct in his gut, which he was learning more and more to respect, told him that they were fighting a losing battle; he prayed it wasn't too late to gain a draw. While the marines continued picking up their gear behind, Ian opened a line through to the TacCon from his headset.  
  
"TacCon from Latimer, do you read me?"  
  
"This is Platt, go ahead Commander."  
  
"I've decided, Lieutenant, that it's time for us to break the communications blackout."  
  
"Commader, we're under express orders to maintain communications silen-"  
  
"Lieutenant, if it were just a small enemy force, we might be able to contain it, but I have a strong feeling we're going to need support on this. I'm ordering you to send out a priority one emergency distress signal to Confederate Dispatch. Inform them of our status, tell them to send any and all available troops to reinforce us. Tell them that Commander Bellamy has been killed in action."  
  
"Yes, sir"   
  
"O'Hanlan, give me a sensor report…" said Ian through the cry of the alarms.  
  
"Sir, there's nothing on the scope; we've got a clear reading all the way to the caverns, and we can't see a thing."  
  
"I wouldn't be surprised, Corporal," said Ian, his voice grave, "if those tunnels extend further towards this base than we'd expected. If they do, and the enemy is still using them, they could burrow out of the ground right on our doorstep. Keep watching."  
  
Ian closed the line and was about to head down to the exit bay, when the ten remaining marines of the Spider Monkey brigade came running into the corridor. Stopping as they saw Ian, they quickly stood to attention. They had not yet been notified of what had occurred only minutes before in the desert caverns; they had no idea that Ian had just watched the other twenty-four members of their unit being massacred, no idea that their Sergeant's lifeless, flayed body lay miles away in the dark underground. Ian looked emptily at them, frozen for a moment, before giving them their orders.   
  
"Get kitted out. You're on rearguard."  
  
The Spider Monkeys acknowledged quickly, and sprinted past to pick up their equipment. Ian stood still in the midst of the surrounding commotion, and lost himself in thought, but only for a moment. Slinging his Shredder under his arm by its strap, he started off down towards the exit bay.  
  
Inside, marines from both units had begun pouring in, and Murello and Deist were already inside. The marines from the "Tommy's Curse" had finished gearing up, and were assembling in front of the exit gate, with Commander Deist standing grimly at their head. Murello stepped towards Ian as he entered, already sporting his pack and firearm, while the Jackknifes began to assemble behind.  
  
"What's the plan?" he asked  
  
"I want three squads from each unit to take up position on top of the basin's ridge, just above the corridor," said Ian, speaking loud enough so that the rest of the marines could hear, "the last two squads, and the Spider Monkeys will hold the ground directly in front of the base, as backup, or in case they burrow through underneath and straight into the basin."   
  
"All right boys and girls, you heard him!" shouted Murello, and in the next few moments, the gate was drawn open.   
  
The marines filtered quickly out of the barracks and into the evening sun, those squads assigned to the ridge running at full pelt across the basin's floor. Ian was amongst the last to leave the barracks, and accompanied the Spider Monkeys on their way out. As he ran alongside them, he debated within himself whether or not to reveal to them the fate of the rest of the unit. They most likely suspected something, and would eventually be notified anyway, but it was the difference between being told by their own commander, and reading it on a computer screen. He decided that it was his responsibility to deliver the news himself; now, however, was not the time. The Spider Monkeys reached their position, along with the fourth squads from the Jackknifes, and the Tommy's Curse, and as the golden sun sank into the horizon, Ian ran on and up towards the ridge.  
  
Nearly twenty minutes had passed since contact had been lost with the scouting party. Ian huffed as he jogged up the rocky corridor, and up onto the plateau. In front, more than fifty marines were arrayed in a wide defensive line; those wearing powered armour stood at the head, their Impaler rifles pointed into the northeast. Ian spoke into his headset as he drew up.  
  
"TacCon from Latimer, where are Gleason and the others?"  
  
"They're closing in on your position, sir," replied Lieutenant Platt, "less than half a mile. they should be in visual range."  
  
Ian glanced over to his right. The land away to the northeast was saturated with the crimson glow of the westering sun, and some way off in the distance, the smoke trails of three vulture bikes could be seen speeding towards the marines' line. Ian stepped up to the front, taking up position beside Commander Deist, and waited for the vultures to draw in. With the attention of the marines behind focused on the approaching bikes, Deist turned slightly towards Ian, still keeping his eyes on the distant riders, and spoke in his gravelly voice.  
  
"Heard about your unit. Tough break."  
  
Ian nodded slowly.  
  
"We're heading straight for it, I think. Better learn to watch your back…Latimer."  
  
Not sure as to what Deist had meant, Ian turned to face him. There was a look in his eyes that Ian couldn't identify. Since he had arrived, he had been a little wary of Ingo Deist; there was a strange, slightly unsettling quality about the man. He had a look about him now, and an edge to his coarse voice, which was not trickery, or menace, but rather gave the impression of a quiet piece of advice, which could be taken however Ian wished. As he opened his mouth to speak, Ian was interrupted by the blaring voice of Sergeant Gleason in his earpiece.  
  
"Hey! What's going on?"  
  
The riders had been well aware of the scouting teams fate, having been alerted by the TacCon as soon as the hostiles had been sighted but had been helpless to intervene, the tunnels being too narrow for them to manoeuvre their bikes inside.  
  
"We're making our stand here, Sergeant. Get in touch with the rest of your squad and bring them out, and take your position on the line."  
  
Gleason and the other two swung around to the wings of the defensive row, and powered down their engines, their bikes drifting lazily downwards and settling on the ground. While Gleason contacted the remainder of his five-man squad, a signal came through to Ian from the TacCon.  
  
"Commander Latimer from Lieutenant Platt."  
  
"Go ahead."  
  
"Sir, the distress signal has been sent. Dispatch sent a reply back through the Sigma beacons; reinforcements are on their way."  
  
"Good. That's all, Lieutenant."  
  
The Sigma beacon relay system was a common method of accelerating stellar radio traffic; signals of sufficient priority that would ordinarily have a travel time of hours, days, or even weeks, could be hooked through a linked series of specialised cipher beacons to reach their destination in a matter of minutes. It would take a fair deal longer, however, for their reinforcements to arrive.  
  
Ian turned to find Deist gone; he had moved across to the far left edge of the line. Giving no further thought to his remarks, Ian stared away into the northeast, watching for movement. The marines settled into their positions, their weapons armed. Commander Murello's voice spoke across the command channel.  
  
"Well, now what?"  
  
Ian peered across the long row of marines to see Murello on the right hand edge, some thirty yards away, looking back towards him.  
  
"We wait."  
  
And so they waited. They waited with their guns primed, and their eyes keen. Minutes passed, and gradually hours; and as the sun passed slowly out of sight, and dry, blustery night fell over the desert, they waited still. During the dark hours, Ian moved to the side of the line, and looked down into the basin. In the centre, was the distant, glittering shape of Fort Sunderland, the marines stationed close by still holding their position.  
  
Thoughts of friends, and of faces made familiar through years of bloody strife, echoed through Ian's mind. He dared not think too closely of what he had lost, of whom he had lost; there could be no allowance for grief. The pain of their deaths had overwhelmed him, but he had steeled himself since. There must be no grief, he thought, not now.  
  
The hours continued to pass, and eventually, the grey light of morning spread across from the east. Far to the right of the sturdy marines, the sun crept into the pale sky, and dusty heat rose once again. A still, scorching day gradually fell upon them.  
  
The time was slowly approaching ten o'clock; the marines of Fort Sunderland had remained vigilant for almost fifteen hours. They had waited and waited, and yet there had been no sign of the enemy; nothing had come. Ian squinted into the east, and followed the line of the landscape around to the north, searching for any sign of movement, any shape, any hint at all of the enemy, but as the TacCon had confirmed repeatedly during the night; there was nothing there. Miles upon miles of nothing but empty, searing earth lay sprawled around them.  
  
Through the night, and then the morning, barely a word had been spoken. Ian stood silent and unmoving, considering their next possible course of action, when the TacCon called through to him.  
  
"Go ahead, Lieutenant." Ian replied.  
  
"Commander, S.T.C.U. has detected inbound traffic. Two Buzzard class troop transports have just broken atmosphere."  
  
"Buzzard class." Repeated Ian. The Buzzard type heavy transport, whilst one of the more dated vessels in the Confederate fleet, was still in wide use as a troop carrier, each capable of ferrying a platoon of up to sixty marines in its berth. With two of them heading in, the signs were good.  
  
"Who are they carrying" asked Ian  
  
"Hold on, sir, S.T.C.U. is relaying the transmission. Two platoons, the 174th and the 203rd, and an M.I.D detail, sir." came Platt's reply.  
  
M.I.D., thought Ian; Military Investigation Division. Relaying the news of Harold's death had evidently pushed Confederate Dispatch to send more than just reinforcements. Small teams of M.I.D. investigators were sometimes dispatched to situations where dereliction of duty, or severe breaches of protocol had occurred. The death of one of the Confederacy's more prominent Commanders, on a planet that was evaluated as being free from any enemy presence, was easily sufficient call for them to be sent in.  
  
"Commander," continued Lieutenant Platt, "the M.I.D. executive, Sergeant Major Sutton, is requesting to speak with you in person, as soon as possible."  
  
"What? Have you informed him of our current status?" Ian asked, more than a little surprised that he had been asked to leave the line of defence in the middle of a hazardous situation.  
  
"Yes, sir, but he's quite adamant. He wants to see you as soon as he lands."  
  
Even though Ian outranked the head of the investigation team, the Sgt. Major's position as an official of the M.I.D. gave him superior powers of authority when conducting an enquiry; Ian had no choice but to comply. Leaving his position at the front of the line, Ian spoke to Murello through his headset.  
  
"Reinforcements are on their way in. I'm needed back at the base; take over here, I'll be in touch."  
  
"No problem."  
  
Murello moved across to the front of the marines, while Ian cut through the line to the rear, and started back down into the basin. As he did, he looked back and caught Deist glancing back at him. The words he had spoken the evening before came briefly back to Ian's thoughts, before he broke into a jog, and headed off.  
  
After descending through the broken corridor in the ridge, Ian kept a swift pace across the basin; half a kilometre in, or thereabouts, a low, distant whine heralded the approach of the two transports. Turning as he jogged, he saw the lumbering ships cut above the ridge above and behind him; the far-off sound of a jubilant cheer carried over from the marines as they flew down into the basin. In another second, the transports had passed noisily over Ian as he continued running, and as their belly thrusters flared, they brought down onto the starport's landing pads.   
  
A team of on-duty technicians were the only people present in the exit bay as Ian came in through the access tunnel; the base was still frozen in a state of tense readiness, as maintenance crews walked their patrol routes through the dark, empty corridors of the base. Ian was the only person aboard the tube shuttle as it snaked through the tunnel network, and he took the opportunity to radio in to the TacCon.  
  
"Lieutenant, what's the status of the M.I.D. team?"  
  
"They've disembarked, sir. They've shuttled over to the command centre, and are waiting for you in the visitor's lounge." replied Platt through Ian's headset.  
  
"Very well, I'll be there shortly."  
  
There was no guard on duty as Ian stepped off the shuttle at the terminal; all of the marines on base were currently holding the defensive line in and above the basin. Ian carried on through and into the command centre, and after checking its location on a wall screen, he made his way through deserted, silent corridors to the visitor's lounge.  
  
A small, relatively comfortable room, with padded chairs and a table in the centre; it was the first time Ian had been inside it. Inside, were waiting the four members of the M.I.D. team. One of them, a dark haired, older man with a thin moustache, rose from his seat and stepped forward.  
  
"Commander Ian Latimer?", he asked in a soft spoken American accent. Ian gave a slow nod.  
  
"I'm Sergeant Major Gregory Sutton, these are my staff member," he waved a hand across at his associates, who stood up from their chairs, "Lieutenants Gavin, Wren, and Macneil. We're well aware of your current situation here, Commander, but I'm afraid we really do have to ask you some questions. Things like this are best dealt with as soon as possible."  
  
"Things like what?" Asked Ian warily.  
  
"Well," began Sutton, gesturing for Ian to take a seat, "we were informed that an unknown number of enemy units attacked the scout team that was sent to locate the objective."  
  
"That's right." answered Ian as he took his seat. Sgt. Major Sutton and the other investigators settled back into their chairs and began to watch him carefully.  
  
"And during the attack Commander Harold Bellamy was killed. Is this true?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Were there any survivors?"  
  
"Other than the vulture riders, no, none." answered Ian.  
  
"And the marines who were assigned to the scout team, they were from your unit?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I'm very sorry. That must be a terrible loss for you." said Sutton, gently.  
  
He was doing an extremely convincing job of sounding sympathetic and non-aggressive, and it would have likely fooled most other people, but Ian's instincts were warning him against something; there was almost no sincerity in Sutton's voice. There was more to it than a simple case of a investigator feigning concern to facilitate his enquiry, but Ian didn't know what.  
  
"I'm sorry, Commander, I just have to ask a couple more questions, then we can finish. Now, in the time you spent searching the underground caverns, were there any signs of hostile activity?" asked Sutton.  
  
"No. None."  
  
"Uh-huh. And did you at any time suspect that there might be a hostile presence on the planet?"  
  
"I wasn't sure. I wasn't ready to entirely accept the intelligence reports, let's put it that way."  
  
"I see. Did you voice these opinions to Commander Bellamy when he took over command?"  
  
"There were no opinions. I said I wasn't sure if there were any hostiles."  
  
"Commander, you're saying that in the entire two weeks you spent in those tunnels, not one enemy unit was spotted, not until Commander Bellamy had entered, and the objective had been found?"  
  
"Yes, that's right."  
  
"And how do you explain that?" Asked Sutton, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"I can't."  
  
"Commander, is it possible that in some way, you did see a hostile signal, or did suspect that there were hostiles present, but failed to relay the relevant information to Commander Bellamy?  
  
Ian narrowed his eyes, and stared at Sutton.   
  
"And why would I do that?"   
  
"Oh, for no reason; perhaps you were simply confident in his ability to handle whatever was in those tunnels. Perhaps you were reluctant to speak up for fear of contradicting the intelligence reports. Commander, I think it may very well be entirely possible that you may have failed to provide Commander Bellamy with the necessary information, in one manner or another. Don't you think?"  
  
  
There was no doubt about it. He was being set up. Ian hadn't exactly figured out the whole of Sutton's agenda yet, but he was definitely being set up to take the fall for something; the arrogant bastard wasn't even trying to conceal it, thought Ian to himself. He was struck by the sudden realisation that he was trapped; two new platoons of marines were now on the base that Sutton could use as enforcers, should he choose to resist. But he wouldn't. There was no resisting the M.I.D., or the manoeuvrings of Confederate Command. Too many other people had tried and failed. He was beaten.  
  
  
Before Ian could say anything, Sutton stood up, the rest of his team following suit.   
  
"Commander Latimer," said Sutton gravely, "I'm going to have to ask you to come back with us to Sidaris, where there'll be a formal investigation of the events surrounding Commander Bellamy's death, and of your actions during those events. Commander Murello will be directed to take over as Tactical Commander," Sutton gestured towards one of his assistants, "Lieutenant Wren here will remain on the base for the next few days and transfer all of the relevant files and reports from the mainframe database back through the sigma relay. With Commander Bellamy's death, the Adjutant will have reverted back to using your authorisation code; Wren'll need it to begin accessing your files. Please escort her to the TacCon, and relinquish your code, then meet us back at the starport. Lieutenant Macneil will accompany you."  
  
Ian slowly rose to his feet; Lieutenant Wren put her hand out, indicating for him to lead the way. Ian looked deeply into Sutton's eyes, but he did not push, he did not confront; there was no point. He, Wren and Macneil walked out, and headed towards the TacCon.  
  
Ian's identification tests were passed quickly, one final time, and in this instance, the two guard booths were empty. With the security sensor above the elevator doors reading three people in front, all would ordinarily have to pass the I.D. protocols in order to gain entry, but not in this case. Wren and Macneil flashed M.I.D. identification cards over the security sensor, which automatically granted them access. The three entered the elevator, and descended into the T.C.U.  
  
The TacCon had stood down to yellow alert, and the staff were still busy monitoring the defensive line, and the area to the northeast, as well as supervising the registry of the hundred-odd new marines who had been aboard the two transports. The morning shift had taken over, but Greaves, Platt and Corporal O'Hanlan had worked on through the entire night. Ian led Lieutenant Wren to the commander's chair at the back, where Platt was currently seated. Ian was about to ask her to step away, when Wren cut in front.  
  
"Lieutenant, stand aside." She said sharply, brandishing her M.I.D.   
Identification.  
  
Platt got up, and after looking to Ian for confirmation, moved across to the other side of the TacCon. Ian sidled into the chair, and as Wren watched closely, he keyed in his authorisation code; at Lieutenant Wren's prompt, he went through the procedure of removing his name and rank identity from the key code. After he had finished, Wren moved in, and substituted her own name and rank details, thereby transferring the code over to her I.D. After finishing, she began searching through the secured tactical logs, pausing briefly to look up at Ian.  
  
"Thank you, Commander, Lieutenant Macneil will escort you to the starport."   
  
Ian stood still for a moment, and then started off towards the exit, where Macneil was waiting. As he walked down, some of the staff turned to watch him; Greaves and Platt were looking across from the far side, and Corporal O'Hanlan was still sitting at the tracking console, watching. Although nothing had been said, they had to have known what was going on. The presence of the M.I.D was a sign too blatant to miss. As Macneil opened the exit door, Ian stopped short of the doorway, and turned back.  
  
"O'Hanlan." he called out. O'Hanlan took his headset off.  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
Ian gave a nod.  
  
"You did well."  
  
With those words said, Ian turned, and left the Fort Sunderland TacCon for the last time.  
  
Macneil followed as Ian returned to his quarters to collect his belongings, and then the two shuttled across to the starport. One of the transports had already departed after unloading its human cargo, the other sat waiting on the landing pad, its engines roaring in the still air. Ian paced through the main hangar, his back pack slung over his shoulder, as flight crews performed maintenance checks and retracted the fuel lines from the now flight ready transport. With Macneil walking behind him, Ian stepped onto the tarcrete pad and walked across, glancing briefly across at the distant brown thread that was the line of marines on top of the basin's ridge, before stepping up into the transport's forward cabin.   
  
Sutton and Gavin were already aboard, along with two marines, who Ian presumed were to be his escort; walking to the rear, he sat next to the view port and strapped himself in. A minute passed while the engines built up power, when the cabin jolted as belly thrusters forced the transport slowly into the air. The transport drifted forward, before the passengers were pinned to their seats, as the craft's boosters kicked in.   
  
And so, with as little fanfare as when he had arrived, Ian departed Fort Sunderland. As the transport swung northwards, he peered down at the marines keeping their vigil below; the ground rushed by far beneath and faded into an obscure haze as the ship climbed, and within minutes, they had broken orbit. The cold void of space welcomed them, painting a glittering diorama around them; Ian stared out into the cosmos, lost in thought, catching sight of the mustard coloured form of Widow XII behind them. A few minutes more and the transport had put enough distance between itself and the planet to make its transit jump. The transport activated its warp engines; the thin whine of spinning turbines filled the cabin, and as particles in the flight path were torn apart, the vessel slipped into the warp, disappearing from view in the blink of an eye. To the occupants of the ship, the universe around them became a great rumbling streak of light; Ian's head lolled back from the acceleration, and he closed his eyes.  



	16. Chapter 1: The Soldier - Part 15

  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER  
  
PART 15   
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
  
  
The transport travelled through the blockade of Terran stellar fleets, and through into the heart of Confederate territory. Ian had slept most of the way through, the exertion of his night's tireless watch having caught up with him. In a matter of twelve hours, the transport had left the Widow system far behind, and traversed the atlas of deep space.  
  
Ian stirred in his seat, rubbing the drowsiness from his blinking eyes, and looked out of his view port. Ahead, lay the arresting, golden-green planet that was Sidaris, it's sun a blazing jewel set in the dark distance.   
  
With a moderate military presence, as well as a dedicated volunteer force, the planet Sidaris was the point of origin of a fair number of troops on the front line. Sidaris itself was relatively safe from attack, its distance from the enemy border being its strongest defence, and was used as an administrative focal point for many of the surrounding worlds. Heavily populated, and with a dependable, stable government, Sidaris was a great source of human resources to the Confederacy during what few years of peace there were in the Koprulu Sector, and continued to be so in wartime. It was there that the enquiry would be held.   
  
After gaining clearance, the pilot guided the transport through the bucking descent into the planet's atmosphere. The dense, reaching forests of Jurialica, one of the larger continents of Sidaris, carpeted the land as they broke through the clouds. Ahead, less than a dozen miles, after where the forests had given way to open fields and flat grasslands, was the city of Jan Vara. More than seven hundred thousand people lived and worked there, amid towering grey skyscrapers, gleaming silver domes, and thin, looping freeways, which sprung out of the city and into the neighbouring regions.   
  
It had been almost fifteen months since Ian had been in a city. After they had landed, and been processed through customs and immigration, he found himself wishing it had been longer. The sheer size of the place was the greatest shock; living in the relatively small environments of Confederate bases for so long had acclimatised him to some extent.   
  
Ian was immediately required to produce a report of the events surrounding Harold's death; an interpretation of that day from his point of view, which would be measured up against the "facts" provided by the M.I.D.   
  
It was during this first day, that Brigadier Phillip Watkins, Ian's commanding officer on Farris Minor arrived in Jan Vara. Watkins had been en route to the Juno System, close to the front line, when he had been made aware of Ian's tribunal on Sidaris, which lay close to his transit route, and had detoured to meet up with him. Watkins arranged a meeting with Ian at the Gren Ratha military base, and had been given the use of one of the guest offices.  
  
Ian had realised, after thinking back to their conversation before he had departed for Widow XII, that the Brigadier had known Fort Sunderland had been Harold's command all along. Those three odd weeks ago, when Ian had put forward his concerns about the assignment, Watkins' words: 'Don't worry about it Ian, it's not your problem.' Had stuck in Ian's mind from the very beginning.  
  
Ian walked into the office where Watkins was waiting, and it was clear from the expression on the Brigadier's haggard face, that he had no intention of concealing his involvement in the deception.  
  
"Ian, lad," Watkins stepped forward, and looked him over. "Good lord. What on earth happened down there?" he asked in a hushed voice, shaking his head. Ian simply stood, and said nothing.   
  
"I hope there are no hard feelings, Ian. I'd rather not have led you about like I did, but they don't give you much choice in the matter. Not in this job."  
  
Ian looked at his Brigadier with solemn eyes.  
  
"No, sir."  
  
Watkins stepped back, and perched on top of the heavy-set office desk, and rubbed his forehead.  
  
"Ian, I'm on my way over to Juno Urella, to take command of the Anglian brigades in that area. I'll be here until tomorrow; have you submitted your report to the M.I.D. yet?"  
  
"Yes sir, it's been given in."  
  
"Good, good. I've spoken to them, they've allowed me to take a look at it."  
  
"Why would you want to, sir?" asked Ian.  
  
"Well, I'd very much like to know exactly what happened down there. And, I got the feeling that if I asked you, you wouldn't exactly be forthcoming with me."  
  
The Brigadier was right. Ian didn't know whom he could trust; Watkins had already lied to him once, but Ian had known him for many years and had respected and trusted him. AlthoughWatkins had misled him about the nature of his assignment, Ian felt confident that he wouldn't have had anything to do with the current investigation, or it's likely outcome. Nevertheless, Ian felt compelled to remain conservative with how much he spoke of his own thoughts.  
  
"It was a mess, sir. They didn't have a dog's chance fighting in those tunnels."  
  
"Yes, must have been awful; being caught off-guard like that." replied Watkins.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"And did you…did you have any idea that the enemy might have been present?"  
  
It was the same question that would be asked of him during the enquiry. If he told the truth, and said no, they would accuse him of lying. If he went along with Sutton's allegations, he would still face punishment, but perhaps Harold's name might be spared some small blemish; there would be no doubt that Ian was at fault if he admitted the error was his, and Harold would be remembered a hero. If Ian protested, however, there would always be those who doubted the truth of the final verdict, those who suspected that Harold, being the commanding officer, was ultimately to blame.   
  
For Harold's sake, he had chosen to go along with the M.I.D., and had made it clear in his report, that he was responsible.  
  
"I thought that there might be…something." Said Ian, vaguely.  
  
Watkins had known Ian for many years, and knew him about as well as any man might. He knew that Ian and Harold had a history together, and had most likely figured out that more had happened on Widow XII than what was in the report. As it was, however, Watkins knew nothing of the fierce argument between Ian and Harold, and he knew nothing of Ian's growing suspicions, which reached far beyond the matter of this investigation. Ian was aware that Watkins almost certainly knew that he was covering up, although he probably couldn't guess his intentions. However, the seasoned Brigadier said nothing; he simply stood up, and stepped up to Ian.   
  
"Well, I've got a few other things I can attend to while I'm here. I'll probably head out sometime tomorrow afternoon. I'll get to read your report before then. I can't intervene on your behalf, though. I'm afraid that you're on your own for this, Ian."  
  
Ian nodded, and turned to walk out, before Watkins spoke out again.  
  
"Ian, what the hell happened down there?"  
  
Ian turned back slightly, glancing over his shoulder.  
  
"It's all in my report, sir." he said, and walked out.  
  
Over the next two days, Ian became the victim of procedure, as the investigation began. After a board of enquiry was drawn up from established members of the legal branch of the Confederate Military, as well as officials of the M.I.D., a councillor was assigned to represent him. After studying Ian's report, for two days the board was provided with complete details by Sutton's M.I.D. team about Fort Sunderland, and its population, as well as the objectives attached to the base's military force. In that time, Ian was put up in accommodation by the M.I.D., given dress uniform in which to attend the hearings, and had regular meetings with his counsel to prepare his account of the events on the day that Harold was killed.   
  
Held in the monolithic chambers of the Jan Vara Law Courts, the investigation was a sour affair from the start. Ian was exhaustively questioned about the events of that last day on Widow XII, and, as he had already resolved to do, he admitted on record to a limited awareness of the enemy's presence. Ian's counsel, Bianran Feld, a competent, and experienced advocate, had advised him that full cooperation with the enquiry would ensure the best outcome, but Ian suspected that the result of this investigation had already been decided. Evidently, he was right.   
  
At the end of the third day of the investigation, Ian was formally charged with dereliction of duty; the board of inquiry declared that he had indeed been aware of the enemy's presence on Widow XII, which the orbital ComSat scans had failed to detect because of the ionic minerals in the soil. The board speculated that Ian had been reluctant to put forward his findings for fear of ridicule, or of being branded a scaremonger. In the end, his supposed vanity had cost the lives of Harold, and those twenty-six others, who had stumbled upon the enemy unprepared.  
  
Fort Sunderland had now become yet another part of the front line, with each side on the planet now aware of the presence of the other. Those platoons which had been transported in with the M.I.D. team were comprised mainly of newly conscripted or resocialised marines, and had been rushed through basic training at the last minute so that they could be dispatched. Still more troops, as well as mobile armour and air support had been allocated, and would shortly be transferred to Fort Sunderland to assist the marines in driving the enemy from the resource objective.  
  
Ian's fate, however, was to lie along a different path. That night as he slept, he was tormented by nightmares of hideous grinning maws, lined with wicked fangs. The rotting faces of dead comrades named him coward, and died again a thousand times over. And the sounds; the sick, jarring sounds of rifle spikes biting alien flesh, and of human blood being spilt by bladed claws, rang through his twisted dreams. Morning came; clouding the memory of his nightmare as it always did, save for one lingering aspect, which, this time, Ian had managed to recall; the sounds, those terrible sounds which had echoed in his dark dream.   
  
The day that followed on saw another dream; a waking haze as Ian stood in the courtroom, with a score of officers and onlookers who watched as Ian received the board's judgement.  
  
"Ian Patrick Latimer," called out the board's representative, a broad, bearded man with dark eyes and the weight of years on his shoulders, "you have been found guilty of the charge of dereliction of duty. It is with this board's deepest sorrow that a marine of such a high calibre as Harold Bellamy could ultimately meet his end through such a simple failing as inaction, or fear of reprimand, but that appears to be the case. In failing to properly alert Commander Bellamy of the current situation, you signed him, and so many others to their deaths. And so this board finds no alternative but to strip you of your rank and status as a Marine Commander in the Terran Confederate Military Forces, and all the benefits and privileges afforded thereof. The remainder of your brigade, the 141st Spider Monkeys, will be disbanded and reallocated to new units. My wishes go out to Harold Bellamy's friends, and what little family he may have had."  
  
Ian stood still as the representative continued; he went on to speak of Harold's bravery and dedication to duty. All around, a dozen people stared at Ian with accusing eyes; some apparently associates of Harold's, some those he served under whilst parading his talents for the Confederacy. All were supposed friends of his. Even other members of the board silently expressed their respect and bereavement over his loss.   
  
Ian stood, and listened to the voice of a man who had never known Harold Bellamy; he weathered the cold glares of "friends" of Harold's who never knew what sort of a man he was, who only associated themselves with him to ride on the wave of his success. They were people who feigned friendship with a shooting star, so that they could ride in its slipstream. These strangers did not mourn the death of a man, they regretted the loss of a tool, a weapon, a totem who brought them success and prestige.   
  
As Ian stood firm beneath the onslaught of men and women who knew nothing of Harold Bellamy, save his name, his heart withered; his friend was dead, and yet he lived still. Ian had lied in a military court of law to protect Harold's memory, his final gift to an old comrade. There were those, however, who had not died as heroes in the eyes of the Confederacy, those who had slipped away without praise or fanfare. The woman who had been his right hand, his support and defender, was dead; and he had let her go without ever telling her how much she had meant to him. And those brave boys and girls; children who had been forced to mature by the horrors of killing, and danger of death; children to whom Ian had never spoken even a word of encouragement, but who had died as men and women nonetheless.   
  
Part of Ian Latimer died that day, never to be reborn; his fate, his road, was sealed with the final, empty words:  
  
"You are hereby dishonourably discharged from the Confederate Marine Corps. May you find redemption for your misdeeds"  
  
The so-called investigation had ended.  
  
__________________________________  
  
A day passed by in Jan Vera. Ian had been awarded a small sum of money by the courts to tide him over until he could find employment; and since he had been evicted from the lodgings that the M.I.D. had provided for him, the money would have to pay for his accommodation as well.   
  
It was a little after half past eleven in the morning, and Ian sat in the office of his former councillor, Bianran Feld. Feld had arranged to meet up with Ian after the judgement was handed out, to make sure that he was in good stead.  
  
Dressed in casual clothes for the first time in almost fifteen years; Ian wore a cheap pair of dark slacks, black shoes, a T-shirt and a thin jacket, and although he my have looked like almost anyone else in the city, he felt decidedly awkward. It was a sensation, which he expected would pass, given a little time.  
  
Ian hadn't revealed any of what was really going on in the investigation to Feld; there was no need to complicate matters further. In addition, the Confederacy might have considered him a threat to their image if he knew the truth, and as such, might have taken steps to neutralise him; Ian would have to be watchful himself, from now on, although he suspected that they'd leave him alone. He was of little danger to them, he was alone, and without resources or influence; Ian had a feeling that his former superiors would be content to let him go for now. Despite all that had happened, he had no desire to seek retribution, or to attempt to reveal the truth, and perhaps the Confederacy knew him well enough to be aware of this.   
  
"Did they give you enough money?" Asked Feld across his office desk.  
  
"Plenty. Well, enough." replied Ian somewhat distantly.  
  
"Are you all right, Ian?"  
  
Ian looked back around at Feld. He was a good man, getting on in life, but with a strong spirit, and years left to him. Ian gave a slight smile.  
  
"I'm fine. I was just thinking."  
  
"Ian, I'm sorry about how all of this turned out for you, but believe me, it could have been worse. Much worse. If you'd made things difficult for them, well, let's just say I don't think you'd be sitting here talking to me like you are."  
  
Ian smirked and nodded.  
  
"No, I suppose not."  
  
Feld looked across the table at Ian, his aged eyes familiar to the suffering of others, but still not hardened to it.  
  
"They took a lot from you, the Confederacy, didn't they?" He asked.  
  
Ian sat back in his chair, and thought about it.  
  
"Well, they…took more than they gave. Let's say that."  
  
For a short while, the two sat, listening to the sounds of traffic coming through the office window; down below, a busy day was in full flow. Ian eventually glanced over at the clock on the wall, and slowly stood up.  
  
"I'd better be going."  
  
"Right, okay. Look, Ian ," said Feld, reaching into his pocket, "do you need a little, you know, a little more money? It's expensive in the city."  
  
Ian shook his head.  
  
"No, no. I'll be fine, really."   
  
The two stood opposite one another, faint smiles crossing both of their faces.  
  
"Well, any last words of advice?" Asked Ian.  
  
"Yes," nodded Bianran, "start getting used to people calling you Mister Latimer."  
  
Ian smiled again, and shaking hands, the two of them said farewell.  
  
The Sidaris sun rode high as noon approached. Ian made his way out of the office, then down and out onto the pavement below; as he walked through the bustling streets, he quietened his mind, and allowed his thoughts to drift.  
  
He was a civilian now; something he had not been since he had joined the marines at eighteen years of age, half his life ago. The M.I.D.'s mockery of justice had drawn to a close, and they had found their scapegoat for Confederate Command; the death of a hero had been explained away. Harold had lived as an icon for the military, and for the people back home; icons never die, and certainly not at the hands of the enemy. By establishing that his death was the result of another officer's error of judgement, the Confederacy had prevented what might have been a vicious assault on public morale. Human error was certainly a much less threatening notion than a swarm of murderous aliens.  
  
The sad part, to Ian's mind, was that little of this would ultimately matter. Harold's death would make the headlines on a few public channels, and a few front pages might bear his photograph; the next day, he would be forgotten. As well respected and as publicised as Harold was, it was doubtful that even a tenth of the Confederate populace were aware of him, or his deeds. It was, after all, a big war, and the Confederacy had other "Golden Boys" to fill Harold's shoes now that he was gone.   
  
And he was gone. They were gone.   
  
What had the Confederacy taken from him, thought Ian as he walked through the shifting throng of people. They had taken his life as an ordinary man, though some might have argued that he had given it. What little opportunity a man such as Ian might have had to become happy during his life, they had certainly taken from him. They had taken his name, and turned it into an entry in a catalogue. They had taken his childish, foolish dreams for the future, and replaced them with the killing fields of distant, war-torn planets. But however much the Confederacy had taken from him, there was someone, something, which had taken far, far more; and they had been waiting for Harold in those shadowed, underground tunnels, beneath the surface of Widow XII. What had they been doing there? Ian cleared his head, and started at the beginning.  
  
The initial intelligence reports had confirmed that no hostile activity had been present in the Widow system for years; double-checking previous long-range sensor sweeps from neighbouring sectors corroborated this. And yet the enemy had been there. The M.I.D. had explained this through the somewhat general term of 'Uniform Sensor Error', suggesting that detection errors allowed a small enemy exploration force to arrive on the planet unnoticed, sometime before construction on Fort Sunderland had began. The M.I.D speculated that they had used the time in between their arrival, and the time of their attack, to move underground, and locate the resources for themselves, which must have only been fairly recently, due to their relatively small numbers. Shortly after, Harold and the Spider Monkeys stumbled onto them, and the enemy responded accordingly.  
  
While this was an entirely plausible, and perhaps even the most likely explanation, Ian had seen enough not to be convinced. The notion of sensor error, for example: such malfunctions, although unlikely, had occurred before, and previous results had been just as dire. Ian, however, simply couldn't buy into it.  
  
Then there was the M.I.D.'s explanation of how the ComSat survey had missed the enemy presence; they had concluded that the same minerals and compounds in the soil that had obscured communications between the marines and the base, had shielded the enemy from the ComSat probe. Again, this was plausible, but there was a strong argument against this theory; the same probe which had failed to detect any of the enemy, had still managed to find pockets of mineral and vespene resources in those same caverns. It could have been argued that the disruptive compounds were more concentrated in some areas than they were in others, allowing rough glimpses of resources to be recorded, but preventing any sign of their malignant inhabitants from escaping. Once again, though, Ian wasn't convinced; at orbital range, a ComSat scan should have cut through any ionic interference, through soil and rock and gas.   
  
The last aspect of the affair, which Ian was suspicious of, was that after the marines had been killed, the enemy had made no attempt to follow the vulture riders back to the base, and attack. It was true, they would have been at a disadvantage on the open plains, but past encounters had shown them to attack with an almost reckless fashion; consumed by some alien bloodlust. Given their apparent numbers, why hadn't they attacked?  
  
There were too many questions, but there had to be answers for each of them. A rough theory began to form in Ian's mind. Suppose that the preliminary surveys were right, and there really hadn't been any enemy movement into the Widow system since the start of the war. Suppose those enemy units in the caverns hadn't arrived at any time since the war began; but had instead arrived before it. Long range and soft sensor scans had been conducted on the Widow system for the past nineteen years; suppose the enemy had landed on Widow XII prior to that time? To Ian's mind, it was the only logical explanation. As for the enemy being overlooked by the ComSat scans, Ian's mind was drawn back to the night of Harold's death; why had they only attacked the marines once they had entered that resource chamber?   
  
There had to be a reason, a connection. What if they had only been inside that one chamber, and had only been alerted to the marines' presence once they had entered. What if they had been there, for all of these years, before the war had even started, anticipating that their enemies would come, waiting, always waiting? Ian's mind struggled to find an answer to the puzzle. How? How could they have waited for so long, and never have been detected?   
  
There was more here than Ian could figure out; his mind wrestled to solve the conundrum; his instincts, on the other hand, gave him the same message as they had given since this whole horrific affair had started, the message that he was at last beginning to accept; that something was very, very wrong. The whole affair with Harold and the M.I.D. was of little consequence; it added up to little, other than one of the more ill-conceived designs of Confederate Command. This new puzzle, however, was something more, something far more. The enemy had waited for them, they must have done; they must have waited. Waiting for so long implied forethought of some kind; it implied planning, a skill generally not associated with the mindless butchering creatures that they were supposed to be fighting.   
  
Ian's instinct was inescapable. Something terrible was happening; a dire course of events had been set in motion, and perhaps no one could see it coming. He had stumbled upon something dreadful, and perhaps greater than he could imagine. He had to find out what it was; he simply had to. Ian was indeed a civilian now, and his military career, which had taken him from one end of the Koprulu sector to the other, and which had brought him face to face with the Great Enemy, was now over; but he wasn't finished with them, not by a long shot.  
  
They had taken more from him than he could ever hope to recover, but they had left one part of him intact, one piece, one aspect that would always remain. There was a single thing that Ian Latimer would always be. A soldier.  
  
Around in the city streets, the people whom Ian had signed away half of his life to defend, stirred ceaselessly in the Sidaris sun. Commuters, businesspeople, workmen, parents, police officers, children; it was the 'real' life, which Ian might have been a part of, once. Small boys and girls tugged at their parents' arms, brandishing plastic guns with childish glee. One buzzed around Ian's legs as he walked silently through the busy streets, and pointed his toy at some invisible foe.   
  
"Bang!" he shouted, and ran off back towards his scowling mother.   
  
Ian walked on. It's funny, he thought to himself, as he disappeared into the crowds; it doesn't sound like that, it really doesn't sound like that at all.  
  
  
  
END OF CHAPTER ONE  
  



	17. Chapter 2: The Pilot - Part 1

  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 2: THE PILOT  
  
PART 1  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
  
"There's one thing I've learnt. No matter what you do, and however well you do it, there's always gonna be some asshole who can beat you at it. It's true; there's nothing I can do, in my whole freakin' life, that I know someone else can't do better'n me…  
  
Except for one thing."  
  
  
___________________________________________  
  
  
  
The bar lamp set into the ceiling flickered, buzzing like an insect, and sending out its pale, sterile light in nervous flashes. All of the other ceiling lamps in the room worked fine; and as it was, this fizzing light was the most interesting thing in there. A man's voice sneered across the room from the front.  
  
"Have you got an answer for us Satomi? Or can we assume your ignorance spreads to engineering, as well as flight mechanics?"  
  
Kimiko Satomi lowered her gaze from the flickering lamp in the ceiling above her desk, and looked at the man in front. She'd been perfectly willing to sit through this lesson without getting into trouble, but this time he'd gone too far; he'd called her ignorant.  
  
"I'll ask again," the man said, "what's the most hazardous aspect of a type three secondary burnout?"  
  
Kimiko glowered at her tutor, her arms folded, and her knees hitched up against her desk.  
  
"Gee, I don't know, teach. Your stupid face, maybe?"  
  
Her twenty-odd classmates, who had previously been quietly amused by her failure to answer, were suddenly stunned into a hushed silence. The teacher stood straight, his face contorted in a look of shock.  
  
"What…did you say? What the hell did you just say?"  
  
Almost casually returning her attention to the ceiling lamp above, Kimiko had decided that she had learned enough about the engine systems of the 'Osprey' dropship for today.  
  
"You heard me, asswipe." She muttered. And indeed he had. His face now almost crimson, he yelled out.  
  
"God damn it, that is it, I've had it with you, Satomi! Get out! Go wait in my office, and don't you even think about leaving it!"  
  
Sidling out from her desk, Kimiko walked through the astonished stares of her fellow flight cadets, and left the room.   
  
The dim, metallic corridors of the Confederate training cruiser, the 'Guiding Hand', seemed bare and cold as Kimiko walked. She made her way through the ship's academic block, and towards the staff offices; here and there were crewmembers, and other students going to and from their classes, all dressed in the same standard issue jumpsuits as she was. Yet more budding pilots, awaiting the day when they could graduate from their training, and join up with a Confederate squadron. Few of them looked at Kimiko as they passed, and none recognised her. She was an unknown amongst the four hundred odd cadets on board the Guiding Hand; she had gained no reputation as a hotshot pilot, or as a diligent student. The only people on board the vessel who would recognise her name were her tutors, but not for any good reason. As she wandered into the staff department, the head secretary, Mrs. Green, seated behind her desk beside the wall, looked up from her computer console and frowned.  
  
"Oh, not again?"  
  
Fiona Green was another of the few individuals who had come to know the name of Kimiko Satomi quite well since the Guiding Hand had joined up with the 12th Confederate stellar training fleet, and set off on its two semester long voyage through the Phirriad star system. Kimiko must have come through that particular corridor at least a dozen times since the journey had begun, having been reprimanded, or thrown out of class by almost all of her tutors at one time or another.  
  
"Who was it this time?" asked Mrs. Green.   
  
Kimiko rolled her eyes.  
  
"Mr. Fuckworth." She grumbled.  
  
"You mean Mr. Duckworth, I take it." replied Mrs. Green dryly, as she tapped a command into her console, "All right, I've opened his office for you. Go on in."  
  
Kimiko walked across into the office, and slumped into a chair, her hands in her pockets.   
  
Fifteen minutes passed, and Kimiko was just beginning to entertain the thought of walking out, when Mr. Duckworth entered, his briefcase tucked beneath his arm. Moving silently past, and around his office desk, he settled into his chair, and stared back at Kimiko with a cold, almost spiteful glare.   
  
"Would you care to explain what the hell that was about?"  
  
Kimiko looked up to meet his stare, and shook her head.  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Satomi, you have got to be one of the foulest-mouthed girls I have ever had the misfortune of teaching. for God's sake, calling me an asshole in front of the entire class."  
  
"Asswipe." interjected Kimiko.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I called you an asswipe."   
  
Duckworth rubbed his forehead in despair.   
  
"Christ, whatever. Look, there are academies where that'd be grounds for expulsion, straight out."  
  
His expression hardened further, as he leant forward above his desk.  
  
"I'm going to be up front with you. If I had my way, I'd have you dropped off at the next repair dock, and then shuttled back home. I am sick and tired of the grief I have had to put up with from you, and I know there're a lot of other tutors who feel the same way. You are this close to being kicked out of here; of the two thousand odd cadets in this fleet, I swear not one of them is doing as badly in class as you are. Not one of them has as much of an attitude problem as you do, and I'll bet there's not one of them, who'd even think about calling their tutor an asshole!"  
  
"Asswip-"  
  
"Shut up!" yelled Duckworth, his face beginning to return to its previous shade of red.  
  
"Satomi," he said, his voice low and tense, "you are very lucky that Vice Principal Buxton stood up for you at the last student assessment. God knows the rest of us wanted you out, but for some reason, she thinks that you've got what it takes to be a pilot. I can't see it myself."   
  
Kimiko peered slowly around the room, a scowl fixed across her face.  
  
"This has been going on a little too long for my liking," said Duckworth, "the smartass remarks, the missed classes, and I've been hearing rumours that someone's been trying to hack into the flight simulators' scenario directory. I'm not saying it's you, but, well, I wouldn't be surprised if it was, so, I'm going to be a little more stringent with you, starting now. The shuttle excursion tomorrow, I'm going to remove you from the list of students going. I'm sure there's another cadet who'll be more appreciative of your place, and more deserving."  
  
Despite what Duckworth may have thought, Kimiko had been desperate to get onto that trip. Around eighty students would be packed into four of the passenger dropships, which would then fly to the outer edge of the fleet and watch the training fighters go through their manoeuvres. Half a dozen pilots from the front line had volunteered to act as demonstrators during their recovery tour, and Kimiko had leapt at the opportunity to see how real pilots handled their craft. Almost every cadet in the fleet had signed up to watch the veterans fly; the students who would attend were chosen at random by the Adjutant, and so Kimiko had entertained little hope of going. As it turned out, her luck had been exceptionally good on the day that the students were picked, and after recovering from the shock, she had begun to look forward to what would so far be the only interesting feature of this semester. Having that taken away from her was, needless to say, a little upsetting.  
  
"What?" screeched Kimiko, "You…cocksucker! I've got just as much right to be on that trip as any of the others, you can't just throw me off, I didn't do anything!"  
  
"Is that right?" sneered Duckworth, shaking his head, "With that little outburst, you have just given up three weeks of simulator privileges, and earned yourself two weeks of detention, starting tomorrow. And you are still off the trip. You give me any more trouble, and I'll make sure you spend the rest of this year in the shuttle bay cleaning engine skirts. Now get out of my office."  
  
Kimiko gave a grunt of frustration, and stood up with a jerk. Her eyes were as cold as ice as she glowered down at Duckworth, but all he did was stare back, and grin. He was just waiting for her to do something stupid, waiting for just one more insult, which would give him the excuse to put her on cleanup duty for the rest of the semester. But she said nothing. She walked out of Duckworth's office, and left the staff department.  
  
The remainder of Kimiko's day was spent wandering about the halls and corridors of the Guiding Hand, her face frozen in a sullen scowl. Eventually, after failing to walk off her frustration, she headed back to the cadets' quarters. The girls' dormitory was similar to how its counterpart in any regular university or college might have been; a bustling hive of activity in the evenings, as the students wound down after a day's slog. Kimiko walked dejectedly into her shared quarters, and fell face down onto her bed; her two roommates, who were sitting on the floor playing cards, gave her a brief look.  
  
Kimiko had made little attempt to make friends on this voyage, with those in her classes, her dormitory block, or even in her room. That distinct lack of friendship ran both ways, however; Kimiko's interaction with her fellow flight cadets ranged from being ignored to being ridiculed. Along with most of the tutors, those students who had met her tended not to have a very high opinion of her as a potential pilot. But she didn't care. She had never cared, not for as long as she could remember, what other people thought of her, and especially not so at this particular moment.  
An hour or so passed, while Kimiko remained comatose on her bunk, when a direct message from the Adjutant buzzed through the room's com terminal.  
  
"Cadet Satomi, you have an incoming call from Vice Principal Buxton. She has requested you take the call in student common room three for privacy. Please go there now."  
  
Ignoring the raised eyebrows of her roommates, Kimiko rolled off her bunk, and left her room. Hushed words from behind followed her out.  
  
"God, what do you think she did now?"  
  
The students' common rooms were in full swing by now. Large, noisy and bright was how they struck Kimiko most of the time, but to those students more interested in socialising, they were a haven from tutors, homework and assessments. In each one, a food bar, pool table, video terminals and communication cubicles arranged along the wall gave the students plenty to occupy themselves with, and as the hour passed seven o'clock, almost three quarters of the student population were relaxing in the five common rooms aboard the ship.   
  
Amid the babble and clamour, Kimiko passed unnoticed to the far wall, and into one of the private communications terminals. Logging on, she opened her message line, and accepted the incoming call from the Vice Principal's office. The smiling face of Carol Buxton blinked onto the screen. It had always surprised Kimiko how young Buxton was; she hadn't yet reached thirty, but her skill as a pilot, and outstanding record of class results had ensured she received the position of Vice Principal ahead of a few notably more experienced candidates.   
  
Carol Buxton nodded, and waved her pencil.  
  
"Hi there, Kim. How're your classes going?" She asked.  
  
Kimiko slumped back into her chair, and screwed up her face.  
  
"Ehh, all right." she grumbled.  
  
"Uh-huh, you know, I just got off the com with Mr. Duckworth. He had a slightly different opinion about the matter."  
  
Kimiko sprung forward, her face contorted with hatred.  
  
"That asshole, d'you know what he did?" she said loudly.  
  
"Yeah, I know full well what he did, and he told me why he did it."  
  
"Aww come on, all I did was-"  
  
"All you did was insult a tutor to his face, and in front of the entire class. I'm sorry, Kim, but we can't have that sort of thing." said Carol.  
  
"All right, all right, " said Kimiko, "I'll take the detention, and I'll give up my simulator time, but come on, I got my place on that trip fair and square. He can't just take me off it like that!"  
  
Carol leant back and nodded slowly as she thought the matter over.  
  
"Ok, Kim," she said, "look, I'll have a word with Mr. Duckworth, and I'll see about getting your place back."  
  
"All right!"  
  
"But!" stressed Carol, pointing her finger, "But, you have to make more of an effort in class. Pay more attention, and try to get on with your tutors a little more. And please, try and tone down your language a little, okay? I've had more than a few complaints from your tutors."  
  
Kimiko gave an impish grin, and rolled her eyes.  
  
"Yeah, okay, I'll try." She said.  
  
Carol looked back across the video link, and sighed.  
  
"You know Kim, I've got four hundred students to worry about on this ship, besides you."  
  
"Yeah, I know." Said Kimiko, feeling somewhat guilty.  
  
"And I can't afford to spend this amount of time with every student, looking out for them."  
  
"Yeah…"  
  
"But," said Carol, "not every one of them has the potential that you do."  
  
Kimiko looked up to meet Carol's gaze.  
  
"If you'd just try a little harder Kim, then you'd make it, you really would. I've seen what you've got. You've got talent, and all you need to do is…ah, to hell with it, never mind, I can see I'm already starting to bore you."  
  
But Kimiko wasn't bored at all; in fact, she wanted Carol to continue, but she wasn't yet ready to actually ask a teacher to talk to her, not yet.   
  
"Look, I'll take care of your place on the trip. Just get a good night's sleep, we're starting out early tomorrow, it's gonna be a good show."  
  
Kimiko nodded.  
  
"Okay Kim, that's all. Go and…go and do whatever it is that you guys do at night. I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early!"  
  
Kimiko closed the line and logged off, and then slipped out of the cubicle. Her mood had improved considerably, and she had trouble disguising the grin that was pulling at her cheeks. Just across from her as she walked back, one of a group of boys playing at the pool table noticed her; it wasn't a common occurrence to see Kimiko Satomi with a smile on her face, and he took the opportunity to poke fun.  
  
"Hey Satomi, what's so funny?" he scoffed, "You been looking at your grade average?"   
  
Chuckles rose up from those students hanging around the table. Kimiko spun around, and carried on walking backwards.  
  
"Naw, I just copped a look at that video that's been going around. The one with Principal Reed shovin' his dick up your momma's ass!"  
  
The boy's stuttering retort was lost beneath a tide of laughter that rose up from those around, and with a triumphant grin, Kimiko strolled out of the common room.  



	18. Chapter 2: The Pilot - Part 2

  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 2: THE PILOT  
  
PART 2  
  
By Mayavan Thevendra  
  
  
"Yeah! I'm here, God damn it!"  
  
It could well have been the first time since the very beginning of the year that Kimiko wasn't late for a roll call.   
  
She had been jittery the night before; after her chat with Vice Principal Buxton, she had gone straight back to her quarters to turn in, and must have lain in bed for a full hour, before sleep finally took her. Kimiko had risen well before her roommates, who lay as huddled lumps under their blankets as she darted around the room in the dark, frantically washing and dressing. They were still asleep by the time she bolted out of the door, and started off along the length of the ship towards the transport hangar. Despite her fears, however, she hadn't missed a thing.   
  
Kimiko's bobbed, black hair was still wet from her morning shower, and as she waggled a finger in her ear, the eighty students inside the hangar were divided up amongst the four shuttles. The darkness of the hangar was striped with luminous markings and hazard bars along the floor and sides, and all around, the dull rumble of the Guiding Hand's engines could be both heard and felt. Students jostled and pushed to be grouped with friends; Kimiko had no need to, for fairly obvious reasons.   
  
With the roll call taken, and all of the students allocated, the members of staff moved up to the sides of the shuttles, and boarding began. In slow, chattering queues, the flight cadets filed onto their designated craft, and were followed in by the two members of staff accompanying each shuttle. As the pilots ran their pre-flight checks with the Guiding Hand's flight control, the students buckled themselves in, the staff members carefully checking that all students were present, and secured in their seat.   
  
Kimiko sat fastened in place, and stared out of her view port. The air was busy with conversation, and the whine of the engines buzzed through the cabin. Mr. Laswell, an aeronautics lecturer, and one of the staff members aboard Kimiko's shuttle, had already walked past, checking that all was well, and had settled into his seat at the front. Laswell was one of those tutors aboard the Guiding Hand who, rather than actively disliking Kimiko, simply didn't know who she was: having missed all but one of his lectures, she was more or less a complete stranger to him. To Kimiko's delight, the other member of staff was Carol Buxton. The Vice Principal, herself an accomplished pilot, had been unwilling to pass up the chance to see some real flying for a change, instead of computer generated images in the simulator. Looking across the dark interior of the cabin, Carol made a last check, and buckled herself in; switching on the intercom to the cockpit, she gave the all clear.  
  
A tight hiss spat through the cabin, as pressure seals enclosed the passengers from the surrounding air. Silence fell; bright flashes lit up the darkness of the hangar, signalling the imminent depressurisation, alarms around the bay blared silently, their sound repulsed by the vacuum seal. A minute passed. Voices whispered and giggled, and Kimiko peered out, squinting across at the other three shuttles. Suddenly, the whine returned, now felt more than heard, and the shuttle rocked as the Guiding Hand's hangar door was pulled open. Before Kimiko even managed to look out through the opening, the cabin shook, as engines throbbed and pulsed. With a groan, the shuttle shimmied upwards, and swung around to face the doors. A moment passed. Kimiko saw a yellow flare as the shuttle in front started on it's way out; an instant later, and the whole cabin quaked with thunder as the shuttle threw a half burn, and tore out of the hangar.  
  
The cadets yelled and whistled as the endless expanse of outer space washed over them. All around, glinting in the sun, were the myriad of frigates and cruisers that made up the fleet, some twenty ships in all. Kimiko was speechless. She had sat in the observatory for hours sometimes, just watching the other vessels, but it was never like this. Now she was moving, gliding, soaring. As the shuttle pilots weaved between the lumbering cruisers, she stared outwards. Stars and distant nebulas swung and rolled; the grey bodies of the other ships bobbed and drifted. The shuttles snaked a course outwards to the wing of the convoy, and bringing about, they formed up one above the other, and held speed with the fleet.   
  
After a few moments, Carol leaned back over her seat and spoke to the group.  
  
"They'll be coming over from the 'Time's Gift', over there." she said, pointing away towards the fleet's fighter carrier, a hulking giant of a vessel. "Should be any minute now."  
  
With eyes wide, the students waited, scanning across the carrier's flank for any sign of the demonstration fighters. A quiet message came through to Carol's intercom from the cockpit.  
  
"Here they come." She said, and quickly after, the com signal of the demonstrators sounded through the cabin.  
  
"This is Badger leader to shuttle group Gamma, we are en route to your location, E.T.A thirty seconds. Just sit back and enjoy the show."  
  
Suddenly, they appeared. Six flashes of light looped around from the carrier's underside, and rode upwards, growing larger as they drew near. The students gasped as the shapes came into clear view; the crooked "T" of the CF/A-17G 'Wraith' was a sight no confederate pilot could mistake. The flight group drew up from the midst of the convoy, and at breakneck speed, shot over the heads of the shuttles, rattling fixtures and shaking the cabin as they did so. The gleeful students peered desperately from one side to the other, as the fighter group broke apart, and began their manoeuvres.  
  
"Okay," said Carol, "everyone stay in your seats, you'll be able to see perfectly well without having to get up."  
  
The fighters broke into three groups of two, and engaged in mock dogfights, in each pair a target, and an attacker. Carol looked out of her view port, and began to talk the students through the fighters' motions.  
  
"Now, this first exercise is to show you some standard evasion procedures. Keep your eyes on the target fighter in each of the pairings. Remember that there's no obstacles out here, no asteroids or derelict vessels, and they're being careful not to use our shuttles as manoeuvring points; so with no obstacles to help, they've got to use every inch of their fighter's turning rate to get out of a lock."  
  
Kimiko watched one of the target fighters above roll into a dive, before it rocketed down, and past the shuttle, it's pursuer following on a mere instant behind. She was mesmerised. It was a cosmic dance; a deadly ballet as one pilot attempted to outfox the other.   
  
"Okay now, two of the groups are going to pair up against each other to show a little cooperative flying. As each of you well know, learning to work with your wingman is one of the most important skills you have to learn."  
  
While one of the pairs continued on with their engagement, the other four divided into two pairs, before each pair made a wide circle around, putting some fifty kilometres of space between them, and then rushed in. The fighters jinked and weaved on their approach, sidestepping invisible cannon fire, before splitting up and going one on one.  
  
"The difference here, to what they were doing before," said Carol, "is that now each of them has a wingman to worry about besides themselves. One strong tactic is to shake off your attacker…or your target, long enough to pair up against his wingman. Once he's been taken out, you go after the other one. Not as easy as it sounds, as you can probably guess."  
  
Some five kilometres off the shuttle's port side, the fighters spiralled, never flying in a straight line for more than a second. One of the pursuers broke away from his target, to engage that of his wingman, hoping to acquire a quick lock, but their mock prey proved too canny for them. Seeing his second opponent attack, he swung around, closing the distance between them, preventing his attacker from gaining a missile lock. As they hurtled past each other, the second "hunted" fighter darted back into the fray, catching his wingman's original attacker unawares. A bright signal flash from the fighter's nose indicated a missile launch. If they had been using real ordnance, a pair of AIM-41 Gemini missiles would have covered the distance between the two fighters in about a second and a half, and would have most likely ripped through the fighter's hull, crippling it. The beaten Wraith pilot stood down, while his now solitary wingman attempted to evade his attackers.  
  
"Man, that guy is so dead!" Said Danny Blacklock, one of the students.  
  
"Don't be so sure," replied Carol, "two against one are usually pretty bad odds, but they're not unbeatable."  
  
As the students looked on, the lone Wraith twisted this way and that, and while one of his pursuers stayed on his tail, the other circled around to acquire a lock. While the fighters continued their melee, Carol continued her commentary.  
  
"Now look at that, he's evading a missile lock by keeping the attacker on his tail in between himself and the other fighter; as long as that fighter's in between them, the other pilot's going to have a hell of a time trying to lock on."  
  
In a surprise move, the hunted Wraith snaked back around, managing to shake off the fighter on his tail for a brief instant, while he curved back and rocketed towards the other enemy Wraith. Signal lights on the craft's wings flashed rapidly, indicating a burst of cannon fire. The simulation computers on board the fighters calculated the probable damage; although the second Wraith had been hit several times, it was still in the fight. The two fighters pulled up simultaneously, entering a parallel climb, while the other enemy Wraith drew in. His targeting computer locked on, and another indicator flash signalled a successful missile launch, and the end of the combat.   
  
"Ha! I told you!" Howled Danny.  
  
Carol looked back, and gave a smile.  
  
"Yeah, okay, but he did put up a good fight. What you have to remember, is that it's not just about flying out there, it's about how you think, how you feel. If you find yourself on your own, with no wingmen, and outnumbered, you've got to be able to keep yourself together, to try and use your situation to your advantage. Flying is never just about one pilot and a fighter, and it's not just about your wingmen; this isn't something you're going to understand until you've gotten out there and racked up some more experience, and maybe not until you've joined a squadron, but flying is about feeling your way through a situation. It's about instinct; it's about control, of your mind, as well as your craft."  
  
The students listened, not fully understanding, but enthralled nonetheless, and eager to learn more; such was Carol's gift. She was one of the few members of staff that Kimiko had ever met who could truly be described as a teacher, and not simply a tutor.   
  
At that moment, the voices of one of the demonstration pilots returned across the cabin speaker.  
  
"This is Badger leader, hope you enjoyed that first little act, but we're just getting started..."  
  
The fighters formed up, and continued on with their manoeuvres; next on the agenda was formation flying, and the shuttle passengers looked on as the Wraiths demonstrated a series of combat and escort flying patterns.  
  
Kimiko continued watching, unable to tear her eyes away, while a few of the other cadets voiced their opinions to each other.  
  
"They were on the front line, huh? How many kills d'you think they've had?" whispered one student.  
  
"How should I know? Probably a few, they look pretty good. Man, did you see when that guy over there, Badger three, I think, did you see him barrel roll past the guy on his wingman's tail to throw him off?"  
  
"Yeah, I saw that!" said another, "I swear, I thought he was gonna crash right into him!"  
  
"Yeah, these guys are definitely good." Said Danny Blacklock, staring out of the view port at his newest idols.  
  
"Huh. I don't think they're that good."  
  
The voice was that of Valerie Mailer. The students had been decidedly impressed by the show of the Wraith pilots, and under most circumstances a comment such as that would have met with some argument. But Valerie Mailer had said it; and nobody argued with Valerie.  
  
Most students on the Guiding Hand agreed that if any cadet were destined for greatness, it was Valerie Mailer. She had a consistent grade A average, had spent more time logged onto the simulator than any of the other cadets, and had one of the highest number of training kills in the entire fleet. Outside of class, and for someone who did as well in assessments as she did, she was uncommonly popular. As was the case with many girls of Valerie's nature, she had her very own clique; a small but unwavering group of friends, a few of whom were on the shuttle with her now. Each one was a promising cadet themselves, each one a worthy addition to the 'elite' group that was the bane or envy of most of the cadets aboard the Guiding Hand.  
  
Kimiko was one of those few students who paid little attention to Valerie and her gang; but having bore the brunt of a fair few of Valerie's scathing taunts, she felt obliged to defend herself when the need arose. As a result, and as was expected, Valerie Mailer and Kimiko Satomi were not the best of friends.   
  
Kimiko had heard Valerie's remark, and perked her ear to listen in.  
  
"Aw, come on Val, you don't think they're good? I mean, look at them..." Said Danny, feeling compelled to defend the pilots.  
  
" I am, you idiot. If they're so good, why are they here doing a stupid air show, instead of fighting the enemy?"  
  
"It's like Miss Buxton said, they're on their recovery tour." replied Danny.  
  
"Well, I think if they had been actually fighting out there," sneered Valerie, "then they'd be doing what most pilots do on their recovery tour: recovering. They probably spent their engagement tours guarding freighters and clearing asteroids. I mean look at them; I bet it's all for show. I bet they haven't got ten kills between them."  
  
Kimiko was having far too good a time to want to sully it by entering into a petty squabble, but even so, her rogue's tongue was having a hard time sitting still. It almost got the better of her; she was about to make a rather distasteful reply to Valerie's comment, but held it back at the last moment, and shook her head, a quiet "pff" the only sound to leave her lips. It was enough however, to catch the attention of Ted Warwick, one of Valerie's entourage.   
  
"Hey Val," he scoffed, "I think Satomi's got something to add."  
  
Valerie leered over the back of her seat, and looked over at Kimiko.  
  
"Oh is that so? Well come on, Satomi, let's hear it. Let's hear what the fleet's hardest working jackass has to say about these flying goons!"  
  
"Jesus Christ, Mailer," said Kimiko, turning to face her, "you don't seriously think you're a better pilot than them, do you?"  
  
"Of course I don't, you moron, I'm only a cadet! But if I'd been flying as long as they have, if I had their experience, I'd wipe the floor with any one of them!"  
  
As conceited as Valerie was, Kimiko knew that she was probably right. Valerie was easily one of the most talented cadets in the fleet; her blatant arrogance made it harder to accept, but it was a plain fact nonetheless. Of course, being wrong had never stopped Kimiko from arguing before.  
  
"Oh yeah?" she said, grinning, "How would you do that? Wait for'em to get close, and then breathe on them?"  
  
"What?" snapped Valerie.  
  
"Oh, haven't you heard what people've been calling you? Started right after Ben Davich blabbed to an entire classroom about his makeout session with you. I think he said something like 'felt nice, shame about the smell' or something."  
  
"Guh, what?"  
  
"After that, somebody nicknamed you 'buttbreath', and it just kinda stuck!"  
  
Some hushed giggling from the other students.  
  
"You little..."  
  
"No! Wait!" announced Kimiko, "I know what you'd do! You'd wait until they got really close, and I mean really close, and then you'd flash your tits at them, then just wait for'em to crash while they laughed uncontrollably!"  
  
As the cadets seated around her broke into laughter, Valerie spat back her vicious reply.  
  
"You little bitch! At least I'm not a no-talent dumbass freak! Everybody knows it, Satomi! Everybody knows you're on your way out of here! Two years of training, and it'll all be for nothing; d'you know what that is, Satomi? It's called being a failure!"  
  
"I'd rather be a failure than a floozy, 'buttbreath'!"  
  
"Shut up!" yelled Valerie.  
  
By this time, the argument had drawn Carol's attention; she leaned into the aisle, and peered backwards.  
  
"Hey!" she shouted, "What's going on?"  
  
The giggling stopped, and Valerie and Kimiko stared dourly out of their view ports.  
  
"Well then," said Carol, "if you're quite finished, there are some pilots out there who you might be interested in watching."  
  
Kimiko and Valerie flashed icy glares at one another, before returning their attention to the display. More than a little agitated that Valerie seemed to want to ruin the highlight of the academic year, Kimiko tried to shrug it off, and lose herself in the graceful motion of the Wraiths.  
  
"All right, they've completed their formations," said Carol, "next they're going to show us some-"  
  
Carol stopped mid-sentence as a message from one of the shuttle's pilots came through to her intercom. After a few words, Carol told the pilot to hold on, while she put on her headphones. Obviously something was up; it was a message that Carol didn't want the students to overhear, which immediately caught Kimiko's interest.   
  
Unbeknownst to any of the tutors, Kimiko had fairly recently managed to determine the command channel frequency for the shuttles' intercom systems. Ordinarily of little use, since the channel was used primarily for the tutors to communicate with their shuttle's pilots, it did occasionally come in handy. Very discreetly, Kimiko switched on the intercom panel on the bulkhead next to her seat, and keyed in the command frequency. Then, bending forward slightly, she pulled out the thin headphones from their compartment, and held them to one ear.  
  
"What's their location?" The voice was Carol's, and it was uncharacteristically tense. A scratchy reply came through from the cockpit.  
  
"They're about two thousand kliks dead ahead of us. Sensors aboard the Stylus Verda have confirmed contact, they've already patched a line through to Fleet Commander Bannister on the Saint Elizabeth."  
  
"Can we listen in?" asked Carol.  
  
"Hang on."  
  
Kimiko waited for a moment, peering quickly around to make sure no one could see her; fortunately, Valerie was content for the moment to stare angrily out of her view port. Overlooked by the others, Kimiko continued listening, and heard the hurried conversation between Fleet Commander Dominick Bannister and the frantic voice of an unidentified man.  
  
"I repeat," Said Bannister, "we are not equipped to assist, we are a training fleet, I say again, a training fleet!"  
  
"What?" came a voice shot through with panic, "You've, you've got to have ships, though? We have to dock! They're right on our fuckin' tails!"  
  
"Negative! We have a minimal complement of armed vessels, and only a handful of qualified pilots! What happened to the 58th holding fleet? They should have been your backup on the front line, what hap-"  
  
"Dammit, they're dead! I told you, the front line's collapsed at Muras Phyriad! There's a big fucking hole in the blockade, and those bastards are flying through it, we are on full retreat!"  
  
"For God's sake, don't lead them back to us! We don't have the firepow-"  
  
"Shit, they're right on us, they-"  
  
The man's words were cut short, as the line was severed. Kimiko stared blankly out of her view port, her jaw wide open. Glancing to the front of the cabin, she saw the back of Carol's head; she appeared to be sitting quite still, one hand over the receiver on her ear. Kimiko's chest went tight as a sudden dread filled her, and she was about to call out to Carol, when she heard her voice in her earpiece.   
  
"Oh God. Get us back to the Guiding Hand now."  
  
"Got it, we're on our way."  
  
Even as the pilot finished speaking, a flickering light caught Kimiko's eye. One of the demonstration fighters was flying in a wide circle, when suddenly, it faltered; for an instant, the craft shook violently as if being shaken. Kimiko, and every other occupant of the shuttle watched in shock as the fighter erupted into a whirling fireball. It carried on like a flaming comet, trailing scorched wreckage and debris. Then the cabin shook: first softly, and almost unnoticeably. And then it shook again. It shook with such violent force that it knocked several of the students unconscious. The universe became a fierce haze as the shuttle trembled. Away off to the side of the shuttle, space exploded silently; and then again, and again. The air filled with the sound of screaming.   
  
"What's happening?" screeched one of the students.  
  
As terror enveloped the shuttle's passengers, Carol yelled into her intercom.  
  
"Get the blast shields down, now!"  
  
Thick sheets of reinforced plasteel slid down over each view port, shutting the panicked cadets off from the horror outside, but the nightmare continued. Jolt after jolt was delivered into the blacked out cabin, and beneath them, the engines shuddered with terrible force.   
  
Above the din of terrified children, Carol's voice screamed out.  
  
"Everybody! Put your heads between your knees!"  
  
Kimiko hugged her legs, and stared down into the darkness at her feet. Sound tore through her ears, and as a deafening crash exploded through the shuttle's berth, she fell into blackness.  



	19. Chapter 2: The Pilot - Part 3

  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
CHAPTER 2: THE PILOT  
PART 3  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
With a stabbing pain in her shoulder, and the taste of blood in her mouth, Kimiko awoke. What it was that she awoke to, however, was not immediately obvious. There was nothing to be seen; all around was a stifling pitch-blackness, but from within came the thin sound of voices weeping. As she lay on the floor of the cabin, Kimiko could feel a weight on top of her; it was not metal, and was too light to be any part of the interior framework or a bulkhead. As she shifted herself beneath it, she felt it give, and running her hand over the object, it became clear that it was a person's body. Scrabbling around in the dark, her hand touched cold wet flesh, and for a brief moment, panic took her. She screeched out, kicking the unseen corpse away from her, and stumbled backwards onto her rear. A voice called out from somewhere in front.  
  
"Who's that?"  
  
Squinting ahead, but seeing nothing, Kimiko replied.  
  
"It's me, Satomi! Is that…is that you, Drickson?"  
  
"Yeah, it's me. Are you okay?"  
  
"I…yeah, I think so."  
  
"Oh God, what happened?" asked the voice of Cadet Suzie Palmer.  
  
"Were we attacked?"  
  
"Jesus, we must have been."  
  
"By, by the...?"  
  
The stunned survivors could hardly even bring themselves to say the name, but they were all thinking it. All that they knew of them was what had been taught by military reports and mission logs; these nightmarish creatures that had always seemed so far away, had now made their first, terrible introductions to the young cadets.  
  
Kimiko could feel the twisted hunks of wreckage about her; the remains of seats and broken sections of the cabin's floor, and knew that the lifeless bodies of her fellow students lay amongst and beneath them. Had it been her first taste of death, anguish might have overwhelmed her as it had some of the others; but it was not.  
  
"Oh shit," cursed Kimiko, "where's Buxton?"  
  
"We can't find her." replied one of the others.  
  
In the background a girl's whimpering cries continued.   
  
"Oh Jesus, we're gonna die." Cried another voice weakly.  
  
"No we're not! Now shut up!" The ruthless tone was hard to mistake.   
  
"Hey, take it easy Valerie." said Drickson.  
  
"I will NOT take it easy! We're in a Goddamned unarmed shuttle, and there's who knows what flying around out there! We, we've got to…."  
  
"We've got to find Buxton" said Kimiko, "or Laswell."  
  
Another cadet spoke out from the gloom.  
  
"I was sitting just behind Mr. Laswell. I felt him, he's…I don't think he's alive."  
  
The sound of splattering sounded across from one side of the cabin, as one of the cadets emptied his stomach. The acrid smell of vomit and bloodied flesh sifted between them, and cries of disgust and despair broke out.  
  
"Damn it, look, we have to find Buxton!" shouted Kimiko, "Now, she was sitting just across from Laswell, just over on the other side. What's over there?"  
  
There followed the sound of careful crawling as Palmer felt her way through the blackness. Another cadet tripped, and yelled out as he fell onto the broken remains of one of his classmates.  
  
"I, I can't feel anything." said Palmer, "Just metal. It's one of the bulkheads, I think. Hey wait."  
  
"What?"   
  
"I think I heard something. Oh shit, she's under here! Quick, gimme a hand!"  
  
The students who were able trampled frantically over towards the wreckage at the far end, stumbling in the dark. They found lying across the floor a fair sized chunk of the cabin's ceiling panel, and feeling for its edges, they hoisted it up.  
  
"All right, careful!" shouted Drickson, "Okay, put it over there, over towards the aisle. Hang on! Okay, careful..."  
  
"Oww!"  
  
"I said careful didn't I? Okay, now put it down, slow. There!"  
  
With the uppermost piece of debris removed, the students groped around below, carefully feeling for their teacher's body.  
  
"Hey, I think I've found her," said a voice, "I…I think it's her."   
  
"Miss Buxton?"  
  
A weak groan returned from the floor.  
  
"Unh, are - are you kids okay?"  
  
"We're okay, Miss Buxton, but some of the others, they, they didn't..."  
  
"Oh God damn it. Damn it." Whispered Carol.  
  
"Can you make it up?" Asked Palmer.  
  
Carol grunted, and the rest of the debris above her rattled as she tried to pull herself free.  
  
"No, I - I'm pinned. My leg, ahhh! Damn it! Nnng, I think my leg's broken."  
  
The students pulled aside what small fragments they could, but a heavy mesh of twisted metal continued to press down on Carol's midsection, and would not be moved.  
  
"Miss Buxton, what are we gonna do?"  
  
"Huunh, you've, you've got to get into the cockpit. We're still breathing, so the hull around the cabin must still be intact. The…the bulkheads must have broken loose when we were hit. We'll be okay in here for a little while, but the air's not going to last forever, we've got to try and get out of here. The emergency access hatch at the front of the cabin, one of you has to crawl through into the cockpit and check on the pilots."  
  
A silent moment passed in the darkness.  
  
"So who's gonna go?" Asked one of them.   
  
Kimiko was just as terrified as the others; she wanted to be far away, safe from peril, safe from fear, but at that moment, it was as if her lips moved almost of their own accord, and she heard herself say:  
  
"Ahh, Jesus fuckin' H, I'll do it."  
  
At that moment, she was glad for the darkness, for she very much doubted that she looked as brave as she sounded.  
  
"Kim, good girl." said Carol, "There's a flashlight in the wall compartment. I think it's just over there, on my right. Can you get to it?"  
  
Kimiko shuffled over the pile of broken fixtures and fumbled about until her hand brushed against the locker handle. Inside, the long, tube shape of the flashlight was easy to find, and with a press of a button, a glimmering light bathed the cabin wall in front of her. She brought the flashlight's beam around, and probed the cabin's interior. The bloody, squinting faces of the other cadets became visible at last, and they began to see the extent of the damage, as the darkness was broken. Debris lay piled around, and at one point, the ceiling dipped low and sharp as if the shuttle had been held in some giant vice. The hull had obviously buckled from the attack, but as yet remained unbreached.   
  
As the light continued its arc, the students quailed as the shattered bodies of their friends were revealed; they lay limp and pale, and stained with blood, and the survivors' fear burgeoned as grief overcame them.   
  
With a weaker bond of friendship to those students killed than the others, Kimiko was spared some of their loss, and she tried to focus on the job at hand. She picked her way through the aisle, towards the front end of the cabin, and drew the torchlight over the partition.  
  
"No, Kim," called out Carol, "it's down there, down on your left."  
  
"Oh, yeah, I got it."  
  
Kimiko crouched down, and tested the hatch's release switch; with no power in the cabin, and as was expected, the shutters remained firmly closed. An emergency panel to the right opened up to reveal a manual release handle, but even with both hands, she was unable to shift it. Drickson stepped up beside her, and stooped down.  
  
"Here, keep a hold on it," he said, "I'll give you a hand."  
  
With the weight of both cadets now drawing on the handle, it began to ease out; Kimiko had braced one of her feet against the wall, and nearly toppled backwards when it at last unlocked. With a heavy hiss, the hydraulics securing the hatch were released, and Kimiko reached in with her hands and prised it open. Another couple of the cadets came forward to take a look while she shone the flashlight inside; the passageway was less than ten feet in length, and ended in another hatch, but beside it, on the wall of the passage, could be seen the dim reddish light of the safety panel. It was a good sign that at least some power was still being fed to the cockpit from the shuttle's generators; with a nod to the others, and with her flashlight held out in front, she crawled forward through the hatchway.   
  
Shuffling through the tunnel with somewhat less grace than might have been expected from someone of her smallish stature, Kimiko brought herself to the far end and held the torchlight over the panel. Palmer called out From the darkness behind.  
  
"Can you do a pressure scan?"  
  
"Yeah, all right, keep your panties on!" said Kimiko over her shoulder.  
  
Tapping in a series of commands, she accessed the internal safety scanner, and set the onboard computer to scan the cockpit for pressure levels and air content. Within a few seconds, the panel displayed the results.  
  
"It's okay. Pressure's good, air's good. There's only partial power, but the hatch hydraulics at this end are working. I'm gonna go in."  
  
Holding her breath, Kimiko pushed the hatch release, and braced herself. With a whistle of suction, the hatchway opened, and immediately the smell of burning drifted into the passage; edging forward, she peered inside.  
  
Some of the emergency lights in the cockpit were still functional, and a dim yellow glow spread across the small compartment. It was clear that at least one of the pilots was dead; she lay slumped in her seat, less than three feet away, her head lolled to one side, her eyes open and lifeless. The primary instrument panel in front of her was a charred wreck, evidently there had been some electrical disruption and the console had exploded, sending shrapnel tearing through her chest. The co-pilot lay face down on the floor, almost below the hatchway and there was a gruesome wound on the back of his head. It looked as though he had been standing when the ship had been hit, and had cracked his skull on the side panel during the impact.   
  
Kimiko took a few deep breaths to try and push back her growing nausea, and then crept forward, and down onto the floor of the cockpit.   
  
On looking closer, she found that the co-pilot was still alive; his eyes fluttered weakly beneath their lids. The back of his head was a mess of gory, splintered bone and matted hair, and spying the first aid compartment next to the co-pilot's seat, Kimiko took a crouching step forward, at which point her eyes were drawn to the front window of the cockpit. Although there was no blood to be seen in the vastness of space, no gore, no pallid lifeless faces like those of her deceased classmates and the shuttle's pilot, what lay beyond the windows at the front and sides was a sight many times more appalling.  
  
The stars drifted slowly upwards as the shuttle revolved in space, and all around, scattered across hundreds of kilometres, were the devastated remains of the 12th stellar training fleet.   
  
Like so much flickering astral junk, the debris hung in every direction; the shredded husk of one of the fleet's carriers lay away off to the right, a giant, drifting wreck. Fires flared from within and along its bow as plasma ignited, and then suffocated in the vacuum. The smaller fleet frigates had fared no better, and as the shuttle rolled, the Guiding Hand came into view. Even at a distance, the damage was horrific; great hunks of the ship had been blasted away, its flanks were scorched and melted, and the hull glimmered as flames ripped through the decks. Kimiko looked, but could see no sign of the Saint Elizabeth, the flagship of the fleet; instead she found only enormous fragments of wreckage, rolling and twisting in the light of the Phyrriad sun.   
  
"Hey, Satomi! What's going on?" called Valerie from behind, "Have you found them?"  
  
"Yeah." replied Kimiko, "Yeah, I found 'em."  
  
  



	20. Chapter 2: The Pilot - Part 4

  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
CHAPTER 2: THE PILOT  
PART 4  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
A week had passed since the enquiry, and Ian had not been idle. The planet of Sidaris, and the scene of his dishonourable discharge had been left far behind, replaced instead by the sprawling urban slums of Nylus Dow.   
  
Ian had managed to recover some money from an old savings account, placed there from before his initiation into the Marine Corps; the earned interest had added enough for him to afford passage to the Nylus system, and there was enough left over to keep him in modest lodgings for at least a few months.   
  
One of the more heavily populated fringe worlds, Nylus Dow was a stop-off point for many of the freighters, and stellar fleets on route to and from that particular region of the front line. Ships passing through rarely broke the planet's atmosphere, however, as the vast Baw Nyla orbital facility was capable of accommodating dozens of vessels, as well as their crews. The planet below thrived upon the trade to and from other systems, as well as various mining projects, and had been greatly urbanised in the decades before the colonial wars. The various cities of Nylus Dow, now acted as havens for weary travellers, and outcasts. Out here, near the fringes of Confederate space, crime was rampant, and far-reaching cartels competed for wealth and power, while those under their fists struggled to eke out a living.   
  
On a world such as this, information was an alternate currency, and there were few affairs of the border which passed unnoticed. As far as Ian's investigation was concerned, it was a good place to start.  
  
It was late summer in the city of Nir Visa, and on a hot, humid night such as this, the denizens of the central slums sifted through the neon lit streets, looking for kicks. "Modest" accommodation in Nir Visa, in Ian's case, was a cheap hotel room, with grime and damp streaked across the walls, and a mattress tough enough to break a hip on. Outside and below, the nightly games were in full flow; it was at the bottom end of what humanity had to offer: drugs, prostitution, gambling, and the police were either underpaid and afraid, or in the syndicates' pocket.   
  
Ian sat on the end of his bed, staring at the laptop computer on the desk in front. He had gone through some considerable trouble to get his hands on it, and now, it sat inert as he watched, silently waiting. The sounds of the urban nightlife drew his attention, and he got up and walked to the window. He wore only trousers and a vest, yet still the heat was stifling. The streets were a showcase of fluorescent lights set against the dark veil of night; people travelled below, by themselves and in droves, money was spent and stolen, cars slowed as pretty girls stood on street corners licking their lips, and somebody, somewhere, was probably being killed.  
  
The starless sky was tinted blue by the luminous displays beneath, and a cityscape of broken roofs and distant skyscrapers stretched away into the gloom. A sharp beeping from behind interrupted Ian's musing, and he walked back and flicked the computer's screen on; an incoming audio call message flashed across it: no location, and no name were listed. Ian opened the line, and then perched back on the end of his mattress.  
  
"Mr. Spencer?" Said a female voice.  
  
"Yes." replied Ian, fixing his eyes on the stained carpeted floor of his room. He had decided to operate under a pseudonym for the time being; although the chances of it were slim, while dealing with those who knew of the Confederacy he might very well come across someone to whom the name of Ian Patrick Latimer was known.   
There was a short pause.  
  
"Are you alone?" asked the voice.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Then we should meet. Now. I'll be waiting at the place where we met last night; make damn sure no one follows you." Said the voice with a hint of urgency.  
  
"Understood." answered Ian, and shut the line.   
  
Within a few minutes, Ian had dressed into a shirt and dark jacket, descended the crumbling staircase outside of his room, and had passed into the streets below.  
It had been two days, and two nights since he had arrived in the city. The sleek, mock efficiency of the central district quickly dissipated as he had ventured outwards in search of accommodation. His first night had been spent settling in, and cautiously touring the neighbourhood surrounding his lodgings; the following day, Ian had gone about acquiring such articles as were necessary: food, some clothing, and eventually a rather old laptop computer. It was during that night that he met Adira Khan.   
  
Ian had put together a rough hypothesis on the enemy's activities on Widow XII, and somebody out there had to be on the same trail; it was just a matter of finding them. That night, a discreet enquiry of the more reputable establishments on the city's north side had yielded few results, and so Ian had redirected his search to the south end. The various clubs and seamy bars in this part of the city were gathering places for street gangs and thugs, as well as assorted drug pushers and pimps looking for potential customers. Information, however, was readily available to those willing to pay the right price, and after some rooting around, Ian had managed to locate an individual who was able, and willing to help him: for a price, of course.  
  
A shadowed walkway beneath one of the city's ring roads had been the scene of their first meeting, and now so it was for their second. Adira Khan stood waiting in the middle, almost unseen in a black overcoat; her long dark hair framing a dark face, young, but weighted with experience. As Ian approached, she looked up.  
  
"Mr. Spencer. You were careful coming here, I hope."  
  
Ian nodded.  
  
"Don't worry, I wasn't followed." he said, "May we talk?"  
  
"I didn't bring you here to show you my beer can collection, Mr. Spencer. By all means yes, let's talk." Said Khan, stepping forward.  
  
"You have some information for me?" Asked Ian.  
  
"The money first, Mr. Spencer. I hope you won't think me too mercenary, but business has been a little slow of late. I'm sure you understand."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"I trust you weren't foolish enough to bring cash?" Asked Khan.  
  
Ian held out a thin strip of yellow paper; much safer than cash, it was a secured credit slip, which ensured a swift and untraceable payment of exactly one thousand Confederate dollars.  
  
Khan reached out with a leather-gloved hand, and after examining the slip, quickly pocketed it.  
  
"Excellent" She said, "I must admit, I wasn't too sure about dealing with you at first. When I heard that someone was asking around about recent goings on along the border, I figured you might be one of those colonial militiamen."  
  
"What makes you think I'm not?" said Ian.  
  
Teeth gleamed in the lamplight as Adira Khan grinned.  
  
"In my business, you get to know people; you're no colonial." she said, looking Ian in the eyes, "I know that much, and you're not a cop." Khan chuckled softly to herself, "What you are, is money in my pocket…and that's good enough for me."  
  
"Very well, then." replied Ian, "My information?"  
  
"As you wish. It's like I told you last night; what your thousand dollars has bought you is access to one of my contacts. He has more information than most about what happens on the front line."  
  
"Is he military?" asked Ian.  
  
"Perhaps. Perhaps not, I don't know to be honest; but if anyone can help you, he can This is how you can get touch with him."  
  
Khan retrieved a small sheet of printed-paper from an inside pocket, and handed it to Ian. On it were a series of four telecommunication codes, and Ian noticed that the first one was an inter-system number.  
  
"Where is he?" He asked.  
  
"No idea." answered Khan, "In another star system for certain, but I don't know which one, I've never cared to look…and if you value his services, I suggest you don't either. In any case, I'm certain the signal travels through a cipher network. I doubt you could find him, even if you wanted to." Khan looked inquisitively at Ian.   
  
"I don't." he said, looking up.  
  
"Good. You should be warned; if you are unreasonable with him, then it would be a simple matter for him to block your signal, or alter his com address, and those numbers will be rendered useless."  
  
"I understand."   
  
Khan nodded slowly, and took a step back.  
  
"Well, I hope he can give you what you're looking for. Oh yes, by the way…his name is Torch."  
  
Ian looked back up to see Adira Khan disappear into the shadows at the far end of the walkway, and fitting the paper into his jacket pocket, he turned around and headed up to the street level.  
  
Amid the bustle of the central district, a row of telecom booths provided as secure a place as any to get in touch with Khan's associate. It was entirely possible that this "Torch" character might be a Confederate plant, working to draw out conspirators and colonial activists by posing as a neutral contact. If things turned to trouble, Ian could make a quick exit with, hopefully, little chance of being traced.   
  
Paying for the call with a credit card, and referring to the printed strip of paper, Ian entered the code sequences one by one. A short wait followed while the signal was relayed through the planet's communication satellites, and then out of the system through the civilian relay network. Ian picked up the handset and held it to his ear, while the booth's com screen flickered. After a few seconds, there came a beeping tone through the receiver as the line opened up on the other end. A man's voice answered.   
  
"Yeah, what is it?"  
  
The com screen in front remained a glimmering mix of blank screen and static.  
  
"Am I speaking to Torch?" Asked Ian after a short pause. A few seconds lag passed while the com signal traversed the relay system.  
  
"Yeah, who's this?"  
  
"My name is Spencer. Adira Khan gave me your number." Said Ian.  
  
"Okay, what do you want?"  
  
"I'd like to ask you some questions, about the Confederacy."  
  
There was a rough scratching from the other end, the sound of a quiet chuckle.  
  
"My time's valuable, mister. You want to ask your questions, then you give me something in return."  
  
"I can't afford to pay you, but I have information."  
  
Another pause of com lag.  
  
"Talk."  
  
Ian stopped for a moment. He didn't want to risk giving too much, in case it was indeed a trap. On the other hand, if this individual was on the level, then he was Ian's only chance of finding some answers, and Ian couldn't risk losing his interest.  
  
"Well?" asked the voice, "What have you got for me?"  
  
Ian thought for another moment.  
  
"A conspiracy." he said.  
  
Another rough scratch of mirth.  
  
"God, give me a break. Look, nice talking to you pal…."  
  
Ian could tell he was about to hang up, and spoke quickly to beat the signal lag.  
  
"Wait, I'm serious. I have information..."  
  
"Pal, I really don't have the time to listen to another crackpot Confederate conspiracy theory."  
  
"It's no theory," said Ian, not entirely sure he was telling the truth, "and it's not the Confederacy. It's the enemy."  
  
"An enemy conspiracy. Right."  
  
It was obvious that the "Torch" was unimpressed; Ian searched for some way to convince him.  
  
"Look" he said, "I'm right about this, I know I am. There's something going on, something big; they're not just acting mindlessly like the Confederate press would have you believe."  
  
"Fella, this is bullshit, and I don't want to know. The enemy, those things…you're telling me that there's some planning to what their doing? They're terrifying, I'll give you that, but there's no way they think like that. They're just animals."  
  
"No, they're not." Said Ian with a touch of force in his voice, "They're not just animals, and something's happening, I know it. I'd bet my life on it."  
  
"I'll tell you what. Instead of betting your life, you've just bet the rest of this conversation on it. You tell me something I want to hear, and you get my attention for another five minutes. Otherwise I'm outta here. So…let's hear it."  
  
Ian was out of time, and out of options. It was time for another risk.  
  
"Widow XII." He said.  
  
There was a silence; at first it was just signal lag, and then it became clear that Ian had caught the "Torch" somewhat off guard.   
  
"What do you know about Widow XII?" Asked the Torch.  
  
"More than you, I'm willing to bet." Replied Ian.  
  
"Well then tell me, and we'll see."  
  
"I know names. Harold Bellamy."  
  
"I know that name, and so could anyone else who watches the news. Try again."  
  
"I know that almost an entire brigade of marines was killed by hostiles, when intelligence reports showed that there weren't any."  
  
"Okay, you could have gotten that from Confederate data files on a base somewhere. Heh, it's impressive, pal, but it's not enough. Give me something else."  
  
"I know," Began Ian, "that the enemy had been waiting on Widow XII since before the war had begun."  
  
It was Ian's last trick, and he hoped it was enough. Another pause.  
  
"Waiting since before the war had begun." said Torch slowly, "Yeah, that's what I figured too."  
  
"What?"   
  
"I said, that's what I figured too."  
  
For one terrible moment, Ian thought that he had been set up, and reflexively looked through the nighttime crowds around him.  
  
"You still there?" came Torch's voice  
  
"You knew, I mean, you know?" said Ian.  
  
"Yeah, I know. And I had to make sure you did too, and weren't just some wacko. But you can relax, I'm on your side."  
  
"Who are you?" asked Ian, "You're not just some information trader, are you?"  
  
"Well, for the purposes of people like Adira Khan, then yes, that's exactly what I am. But let's just say I'm a concerned Confederate citizen, like yourself, I imagine."  
  
"How did you find out?" asked Ian, growing more and more intrigued.  
  
"Like I said, I do have access to a great deal of information, plus the fact that I was looking for it. What's your excuse?"  
  
"It's a long story, best left untold, I think."  
  
"Pal, are you sure you want to be in on this? Believe me, you'd probably be better off forgetting about all of this, just going home to your family and…"  
  
"No." said Ian, "I'm in."  
  
"Okay, look Spencer, or whatever your name is. You're onto something, but I'm not sure you realise exactly how big a deal this is."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"This didn't just happen at Widow XII. There are at least half a dozen places all along the border, where detailed intelligence reports have overlooked large numbers of the enemy, and people have died because of it."  
  
"How could they be overlooked?" Asked Ian, having asked himself the same question dozens of times.  
  
"I don't know. I've been trying to figure it out. Believe it or not, you're not the only one out there who's in on this."  
  
"I was kind of counting on that," said Ian.  
  
"There's another guy I've been in touch with, who's on the same track. He said he was onto something, but I lost contact with him two days ago."  
  
"Who is he?"  
  
"He's a Confederate marine. His name's Tando, Corporal Jon Tando. He's part of the 88th 'Infidels', it's a reconnaissance unit. He's got some tech background, some xenobiology and biochemistry knowledge. He said he was close to getting some answers just before I lost touch with him. I managed to hack the Confederate personnel records for about four minutes last night, but it was enough to see that he hadn't been declared KIA, so there's a chance he's still alive."  
  
"Where was he when you lost contact?" asked Ian.  
  
"Sector F-22. It's in the Dead Zone between Oporis on our side of the border, and Trianune on the other. Our best bet's to try and monitor the sensor reports and communications in that area, try and-"  
  
"I'll find him."  
  
"What?" said Torch.  
  
"I have a feeling that by the time we hear something of him, it'll be his obituary. I know where F-22 is, I can find him. It'll use up the last of my resources, but it's the only lead we have, yes?"  
  
"Yeah, but remember, it's the Dead Zone we talking about. It's no picnic out there."  
  
"Don't worry," said Ian, "I can handle myself."  
  
"Okay, well I can't tell you any more about him than I already have, but I managed to lift his marine registry photo from the personnel files. This is him."  
  
A photographic image blinked onto the com screen; the picture was slightly faded, and showed a Caucasian man in his early thirties, with slightly shaggy light brown hair, and a fair face.  
  
"All right, I've got it," said Ian, committing the man's face to memory, "I'll try and get away sometime tomorrow."  
  
"Good, I'll keep working at this end. Look, stay in touch, and watch yourself."  
  
Ian nodded, and shut the line. The night's activities around him were reaching their peak, as he headed back to his lodgings to prepare for the journey ahead.  



	21. Chapter 2: The Pilot - Part 5

  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 2: THE PILOT  
  
PART 5  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
  
"What do you mean they're all dead?" screeched Valerie.  
  
Kimiko leant against the hatchway, and peered back through the access tunnel into the darkness of the passenger cabin. Another flashlight had been recovered from one of the side lockers, and it's flickering beam shone in the background.  
  
"What do you think I mean, Mailer?" Replied Kimiko wearily. Seeing the horrendous fate of the training fleet had stolen what little bravery she had remaining, and her strength waned as she sagged against the rear of the cockpit.  
  
"I mean they're dead. I don't know, there must be some survivors…if we made it, then someone else must have."  
  
"Oh God, I-I want to see!" cried one of the cadets.  
  
Two others pushed to the front of the gathering at the other end, hankering to climb through and see the carnage with their own eyes, when Kimiko shouted back.  
  
"No, stay back there! There's not enough room in here. Believe me…believe me, you really don't want to see it."  
  
Amid murmurs of anguish, Palmer called out:  
  
"Satomi, what about the pilots?"  
  
"One's dead," said Kimiko, glancing at the seated corpse behind her, "the other one's alive I think, but he's cracked his nut. It doesn't look good."  
  
"Is the first aid kit there?" Called Drickson.  
  
"Yeah, but…I only got a D in first aid. Can anyone beat that?"  
  
"Most people, I think, Satomi."  
  
"Hey, what about Val?" Said another cadet, "Hey Val,you did good in first aid, didn't you?"  
  
"Yeah, but…"  
  
"Hey, it's okay Satomi, Val's coming!"  
  
Kimiko shook her head, and sat down in the co-pilot's seat to retrieve the medical kit. With a little careful coercion, Valerie "volunteered" to administer first aid to the wounded co-pilot, and after a few moments, her head poked through the hatchway into the cockpit.   
  
"Oh, Jesus." she whispered, eyeing the shattered figure slumped in the left hand chair, "Is she really…"  
  
"Dead?" jibed Kimiko, as she held out the medical kit, "No, she's napping. Here."   
  
Valerie scowled, and then slid down onto the floor; as she reached out for the kit, she looked out of the cockpit window, and froze.  
  
"God."  
  
Kimiko looked over he shoulder at the dreadful scene, and then back at Valerie.  
  
"They're, they're..." stuttered Valerie.  
  
"I told you," replied Kimiko quietly.  
  
Valerie took a moment, and crouched on the cockpit floor, while the realisation of what had happened sunk in. Kimiko sat, and silently watched her; there was a look in Valerie's eyes, a look of fear and grief like that of a small child. It stung her deep inside, and she wondered whether the same expression lay across her own bloodstained face. Eventually, she spoke out.  
  
"C'mon Mailer, this guy needs some help."  
  
Valerie nodded weakly, and turned her attention to the co-pilot.  
  
"Ugh, I think I'm gonna be sick," she groaned, examining the man's smashed skull.   
  
"Don't, for God's sake." Grumbled Kimiko, "Like there aren't enough gross things to look at. I really don't need to see your fuckin' breakfast too."  
  
"Oh, put a sock in it, Satomi." said Valerie, while she applied a gauze wrapping to the wound. "Here, put your hand on it."   
  
While Kimiko held the wrap in place, Valerie reached into the medical kit, and retrieved a roll of bandaging, and proceeded to wind it around the co-pilot's head until the gauze had been pressed into place, and then fastened it underneath his chin. Rummaging around at the bottom of the kit, Valerie then brought out a syringe and a small cluster of medical vials. Drawing liquid from one of them, she pulled the man's arm straight, rolled up his sleeve and squeezed it above the elbow till a bluish vein bulged to the surface.  
  
"What's that?" Asked Kimiko, eyeing the syringe cautiously.  
  
"It's a calcifier. It'll help his bone repair itself," replied Valerie, nodding towards the co-pilot's head, "and it'll keep him stable. I don't think there's anything else I can do."  
  
With gritted teeth, Valerie pushed the needle tip through into the vein, and emptied the syringe.  
  
"Now what?" Asked Kimiko.  
  
"God, didn't you pay any attention at all during first aid?" snapped Valerie.  
  
"Yeah, I got a D, didn't I?"   
  
"What, you think that's good?" asked Valerie incredulously.  
  
"It's a pass, so it's good enough."  
  
"I swear, Satomi," muttered Valerie, packing up the medical kit, "you so don't belong here."  
  
Kimiko stood up, and walking to the hatchway, she squinted back into the cabin.  
  
"Yeah, I was just thinking the same thing myself…" she muttered.  
  
Drickson spoke through from the gloom on the other side of the access tunnel:  
  
"Hey, Miss Buxton wants to know how the pilot's doing!"  
  
Before Kimiko could reply, Valerie pushed in front, and called back.  
  
"I've taken a look at him," she announced, "he's stable I think, but he's not going to last much longer unless we get to a capital vessel, or a medical frigate, and all the ones from the fleet have been destroyed, by the looks of it."  
  
"Okay, hang on a sec," Replied Drickson and relayed the message to Carol, who still lay pinned against the cabin floor. After a moment, he returned.  
  
"Miss Buxton wants to know if there are any, any hostiles out there."  
  
"No, there's nothing." Said Valerie.  
  
"Nothing we can see, anyway." added Kimiko.  
  
"Okay," said Drickson, "she said she wants you to check the damage display."  
  
Having regained her composure somewhat, Valerie reverted to her usual domineering persona, and assumed authority of the murky cockpit. Shoving past Kimiko, she settled into the co-pilot's seat, and examined the forward console.  
  
"I can't," she yelled back, "There's no power, everything's dead!"  
  
"Try and switch on the backups…" came Drickson's faint voice.  
  
The console from where this would have been done lay across the upper right side of the cockpit; such was the extent of the damage however, that even this specially insulated terminal had been shorted out.  
  
The backup generators for the cockpit systems were located about six feet beneath and in front of the forward flight consoles, deep within the nose of the shuttle. Valerie knelt down and removed one of the panels in front of the co-pilot's flight yoke and peered inside. She shook her head; a melted net of smouldering cables lay plastered around the interior, and somewhere behind, out of sight and reach, were the generators. Kimiko bent over Valerie's shoulder and grinned.  
  
"Hunh. Need a hand?"  
  
"No!" barked Valerie, "I can handle it, all I need is a-a…"  
  
"A what?" Kimiko asked, "A really long stick? Relax Mailer, I've got this one covered, now get outta the way!"  
  
Shooing Valerie aside, Kimiko crouched down, and ran a finger along a clump of wiring running along the floor of the compartment.   
  
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" scowled Valerie.  
  
Kimiko edged further and further forward, creeping along almost on her belly, and reached into the dark, tangled space in front with her right arm.  
  
"Wait just one second…"  
  
Taking care not to burn herself on the exposed wiring, she twisted her arm around and then looked over her shoulder at Valerie.  
  
"Go over to power relay switches!"  
  
"What, but there's no power?"  
  
"For God's sake Mailer, just do it, will you?"  
  
Valerie stood up, and sidled around the pilot's corpse to the left hand wall console.  
  
"Come on, Mailer let's go! I don't want people calling me lefty, God damn it!"  
  
"All right! All right, I'm there. Now what?"  
  
"Wait until the backup light comes on, and then transfer the power to the main battery."  
  
With a grunt, Kimiko pressed her shoulder forward, and at that instant, and very much to Valerie's surprise, the signal light for the cockpit's backup generator flared. Not wasting any time, she quickly opened a power feed into the cockpit system grid, and electronically locked the connection into place.  
  
"Hey, how did you do that?" She asked.  
  
Kimiko shuffled backwards, and slowly withdrew her arm from the cabling compartment.  
  
"There's a little junction box for one of the backup generators," she said, "it's within arm's each if you know where to find it; if the backup control terminal's kaput, you can use it to restore cockpit power."  
  
"They never taught us that?" Said Valerie, a little put out that Kimiko had known something about the shuttle's systems that she hadn't.  
  
"Yeah well, it's not "standard procedure" or something like that," said Kimiko, rubbing her hand across her sleeve.  
  
"How did you know it was there?"  
  
"Oh, there was this old Albatross shuttle back at Miholo Academy. It was just a piece of junk, no one flew it; I used to tinker around in the cockpit when I didn't have anything better to do. I was trying to get some of the optics working when I found that junction box."   
  
Kimiko gave a wry grin to herself.  
  
"Yeah, if the primary power core's online, there's something like a one in four chance that you'll get fried if you touch it. So it's not exactly surprising they don't tell you about it."  
  
Valerie looked over at her, and screwed her face up in disbelief.  
  
"What, are you serious? Have you got a death wish or something?"  
  
Kimiko tilted her head to one side and smiled.  
  
"Lemme see. Death, or sitting in a smoky cockpit with a corpse, a vegetable and, well…you. Hmm, give me a minute. "   
  
Valerie gave her another scowl, and Drickson's voice called out once again.  
  
"What's happening?"  
  
"Hang on," said Kimiko checking the co-pilot's flight console. After a couple of attempts at booting it up, the panel flickered to life, and some of the display screens, although scorched and cracked, were still relaying information from the shuttle's electronic systems. Cycling through one of the display's various functions, Kimiko accessed the damage analysis screens. Valerie, and others behind listened as she delivered the readings.  
  
"The third primary thruster is online, thrusters one and two are toast. There's intermittent response from the laterals, same goes for the collar thrusters…"   
  
"What about the hull?" asked Valerie.  
  
"Hull, hull…" muttered Kimko, flicking through the display screens, "The hull's uncompromised. There's a shitload of yellow grade regions, and one red one, but it looks good to hold for the moment. The ship's power core is still functional, magnetic gravity is stable."   
  
"Hey, why don't we shut off the gravity rail?" asked one of the cadets from the cabin. "That way we'll be able to lift all of that stuff on top of Miss Buxton."   
  
"No, that's no good." Answered Valerie. "Her leg's too badly injured; if she moves it, it'll just make it worse. Anyhow, if we take the rail offline, we probably won't be able to get it back, and that'll leave a whole load of heavy debris floating around back there with all of you."  
  
Kimiko turned back around, and continued reading off the display screen.  
  
"Ok fuel. Fuel tanks are at eighty four percent. Okay, most…no, make that all of the shuttle's optics have been burned out. There's no radar, no navigation or guidance, and no communication."  
  
"How much air have we got left?"   
  
"Uhh, air supply is…not so good. there's enough for another twenty eight hours. Wonderful."  
  
Valerie leant through the hatchway and spoke back to the others.  
  
"What do we do now?" She asked.  
  
One of the students clambered to the rear of the cabin to check with Carol, and after some pause, he returned.  
  
"She says we've got to go. We have to try and make it to the fleet fallback point at Cid Fleiis."  
  
"What?" said Valerie, "why don't we just wait to be rescued? Command has to know what happened here, there've got to be rescue teams on their way right now!"  
  
"Val," said Palmer at the other end, "For all they know, there aren't any survivors. And even if they are on their way, they might not be able to get here. Maybe the enemy carried on into Confederate space, and are in between them and us; we can't just sit and wait for them, not with just twenty-eight hours of air left. And it's not just the co-pilot that needs help; Miss Buxton's bleeding pretty bad. There'll be a garrison fleet at the rally point, it's our only chance. If we start now, we can make it back."  
  
"What about the other survivors?" Asked Kimiko, stepping to the hatchway, "Are we just gonna leave 'em?"  
  
"If there are any," said Drickson, "then…we can't help them. We're in bad enough shape as we are, and we wouldn't be able to contact them anyway. We just have to hope that they can make it back to Cid Fleiis."  
  
The cadet who had just spoken to Carol came forward again.  
  
"Miss Buxton says that you two are going to have to try and fly the shuttle. She wants Satomi to take lead, and Val, she wants you to co-pilot."  
  
"You've got to be joking!" cried Valerie, "No way! There's no way! I'm not flying with this...retard in the pilot's chair!"  
  
"Oooh retard, " Murmured Kimiko, "and there was me thinking you didn't like me."  
  
From far behind, almost unheard, Carol's straining voice reached forward to the cockpit.  
  
"Val."  
  
"Yeah?" she replied.  
  
"I don't have time to argue this with you. You two are going to have to work together. If you don't want to do it, then one of the others can come up there and take your place."  
  
"No. No, I'll do it." Said Valerie.  
  
"Kim?" Called out Carol, "What about you?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm okay. Sure…"  
  
"All right. Get started."  
  
Valerie turned slowly round and stared blankly at Kimiko. The two were not friends, that much was certain, but nor were they rivals, there was simply an animosity that existed between them, and had done so since they had first met a little over a year ago. To these young cadets, who had never before cared to even train with one another, the sudden prospect of having to work together in such dire circumstances was less than agreeable.  
  
"This can't be happening." Valerie moaned.  
  
"Hey, believe it or not," said Kimiko, "I'm not exactly overjoyed with how this has turned out either."  
  
"You could always leave." Suggested Valerie.  
  
"Heh, forget about it Mailer. I'm staying right here."  
  
"Look Satomi, this isn't about you. Everyone's lives are at stake. I'm sure you think you're a pretty good pilot, but you're not cut out to take lead."  
  
"I don't think I'm good Mailer," Retorted Kimiko, pointing her finger, "I know I am, and you know what? I'm just as good as you."  
  
Valerie met Kimiko's steely gaze and sniffed.  
  
"You really believe that, don't you? I am not even going to dignify that with a response."  
  
"Fine," Said Kimiko, glancing over at the dead pilot, "then shut up, and help me move her."  
  
The girls set about the grim task of removing the pilot from her seat, and carefully, they tucked the body against the rear of the cockpit. The two of them then took their places, and Kimiko fastened herself into her seat, paying as little heed as she could to the blood soaking its lining.  
  
Prying away the console's panelling, she was able to sift through the burnt-out redundant wiring underneath, and directly access the engines' ignition controls. As Valerie rechecked the shuttle's power levels, Kimiko wrapped her right hand around the throttle lever beside her, and tightly gripped her flight yoke with the other.  
  
"All right. Power levels are good," reported Valerie, "output's up to four-eighty, four-eighty two…holding steady at four-eighty two." She looked sidelong at Kimiko.  
  
"I don't think we're going to get any more than that."  
  
Kimiko nodded, and reached over with her left hand. With the console's circuitry swept to one side, a small metal connecter pad inside now functioned as a makeshift ignition switch.  
  
"Okay Mailer, cross your fingers." Said Kimiko, and pressed it.  
  
There was only the sharp click of the metal pad, and nothing more for long seconds afterward, and the two cadets sat in dread that there was some hidden breach in the power system, or the fuel lines. And then suddenly there came a thin ringing sound, like metal pipes clanging against one another, and the sound came faster, and louder, until finally a great roar erupted from beneath them.  
  
"Yes! Power feed's good, fuel feed's good," Said Valerie, checking her readings.  
  
"Thank God for that. Okay, before we start moving," Said Kimiko over the rumble of the shuttle's engines, "we, uh, we're fairly sure that there aren't any more of those things out there, right?"  
  
Valerie looked over and bit her lip.  
  
"Yeah…fairly sure."  
  
"Great, good enough for me. Let's see if we can get turned around."  
  
The shuttle was still spinning slowly in space, and with a gentle tug of her flight yoke, a thick hissing sounded out from the nose; the rising stars slowed to a standstill as the craft levelled. Turning the wheel gently to the right, Kimiko glanced over her shoulder. One of the shuttle's collar burners glimmered into view through the left window, and with a tremendous weight, the nose swung slowly around.   
  
The dreadful panorama idled past before them. The fires had burned out on all but the largest of the fleet's vessels, and a million metallic stars glinted as debris tumbled about them. The great field of wreckage was eventually left to the side, and steadily, the shuttle turned to face the empty expanse of open space that lay behind; a vast emerald hued gas nebula sprawled across the starry blackness, and Kimiko squinted ahead.  
  
"Uh, you do where we're going, don't you?" Asked Valerie.  
  
"What? Pff, of course I do. It's that way, right?" replied Kimiko, pointing with her thumb to a region of space at the tip of the nebula. Valerie nodded uneasily.  
  
"Well, then," said Kimiko softly, "let's get this tub of shit moving."  
  
With her hand wrapped tightly around it, she pushed the throttle bar forward. A low groan rippled through to the cockpit from the rear, and they heard the guttural whine of the engine coil. As it rose in pitch and volume, the entire craft shuddered, and then at last, began to creep forward. Another push of the throttle bar, and the ship jolted, and gathered speed.   
  
With the remains of their fleet, and their friends left far behind, the flight cadets in their battered shuttle began the long and lonely passage back from the Phyrriad system, and on towards the rally point.  



	22. Chapter 2: The Pilot - Part 6

  
  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 2: THE PILOT  
  
PART 6  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
  
Silver flecks of scattered dust and debris hurtled past, as the ragged shuttle held its course. Far away against the silent blackness of space, the edges of the distant nebula reached outwards like curling, sea green tendrils.   
  
Kimiko gripped her flight yoke ever more tightly as it shuddered and jerked, and used the stars at the window's edges as reference points. The last sixteen hours of steady flight had taken the cadets far out of the Phyrriad system, but the twin suns of Cid Fleiis were still little more than hazy amber pinpricks, and there was perhaps only seven hours worth of breathable air left inside the shuttle's environment tanks.  
Kimiko tilted her head across towards Valerie, who was sat tiredly studying one of the display screens.  
  
"Velocity?"  
  
She had asked twice in the last hour, and there had been little change since.  
  
"One zero eighty." said Valerie, grimly.  
  
With only one of the primary thrusters left functioning, the shuttle's maximum travelling speed had been reduced drastically. The collar thrusters, and those thermal vents arranged along the shuttle's hull designed to reduce inertia and aid manoeuvring, had all been shut off, so that every available measure of speed could be gleaned from what little propulsion they had left.  
  
"Are they still asleep?" Asked Kimiko, as she refocused on the forward window.  
  
Valerie turned, and gave a brief glance backwards into the cabin; there was nothing to be seen. Some hours ago, the cadets had cast woollen blankets over their fallen classmates, and under Carol's direction, had retired to the front of the cabin to get some rest; at the very least, it would help stretch their air supply a little further. Torches had been switched off, and a noiseless gloom was all that lay beyond the hatchway.  
  
"I think so," answered Valerie, "I can't see anything."  
  
For a short time, while Kimiko kept the shuttle on its course, Valerie simply stared out of her side window, her head occasionally bobbing forward as sleep took her for short seconds at a time. Kimiko felt that same exhaustion swelling in her, clouding her mind and slackening her grip, and she struggled to focus her thoughts, and maintain control.  
  
"Hey Mailer, don't go to sleep, damn it."  
  
"I'm not," mumbled Valerie, her head lolling, even as she spoke.  
  
"Hey! Come on, wake up!"  
  
Valerie rubbed her face and looked over, her eyes dreary and dim.  
  
"All right, I'm okay. How…how much further do you think it is?"  
  
"Too far," Replied Kimiko weakly. "We haven't got enough speed, or enough air, and there's too much distance to cover. Mailer, I…don't think we're going to make it."  
  
"What? Of course we will," said Valerie, almost on the point of collapsing. "We've just got to keep going, s'all."  
  
"Mailer, I'm serious. It's, it's too far. We'll never make it there before our air runs out."  
  
"God, don't say that, Satomi. Just, don't say that. Keep, keep going."  
  
"Isn't there anything else out here? Mailer, talk to me! Isn't there anywhere else we can go?"  
  
"No, there's nowhere." Valerie had slumped forward over her flight yoke, and her eyes were slowly drawing shut.  
  
"Mailer!"  
  
There was no amount of shouting that would cut through her fatigue, and so, undoing her safety belt, and with one hand left on her controls, Kimiko slid sideways out of her seat and delivered a savage kick to Valerie's shin.  
  
"Eeeaagh!"   
  
"Wake up!" yelled Kimiko.  
  
Valerie almost fell from her seat as she jerked reflexively, and she grasped her leg in pain.  
  
"Oww, you bitch! What the hell was that for?"  
  
"Listen to me, Mailer! There's no way we're going to make it to the rally point, we've got to find somewhere else to go!"  
  
"Where?" bawled Valerie, still rubbing her shin. "There's nothing out here!"  
  
"What about traders?"  
  
"There won't be any! Not now, not after those things broke through the front line. There's no way any trader'll come within a hundred light years of this system."  
  
"Junkyards, then! Monitoring stations, anything!" cried Kimiko, reaching desperately for hope. Valerie covered her mouth, and shook her head.  
  
"There's nothing here. Just space. Oh God, we're going to die," she whimpered.  
  
"No we're not, stop it. Stop it!"  
  
But there was little use in Kimiko's scolding; Valerie slumped forward again, not out of exhaustion but out of grief, as their probable fate became all too apparent. Kimiko stared forward stoically, and bit her lip. A shiver passed through her, and she felt her resolve diminish. She panted, as anguish swelled in her, and tightened her stomach; and her eyes, reddened and clouded by weariness, slowly began to close.  
  
As if from a dream, there then appeared an object, dull and obscure against the black veil of space. Kimiko's eyes fluttered, and opened long enough for her to realise that it was no figment or illusion, but real, and that the distance between them was being closed at considerable speed. Another moment, and Kimiko's nodding mind recognized that the object was, in fact, lying still in space; and that the speed of the shuttle was carrying them straight towards it. The realisation came slowly, and in another second, they were upon it. With a shocking thud, the object impacted against the front window, obscuring its view with a curtain of seeping, muddy red. Both Kimiko and Valerie jerked upright, their distress, and their drowsiness momentarily banished.  
  
"Jesus Fuckin' Christ!" cursed Kimiko. "What the fuck is that?!"  
  
Valerie couldn't answer, and sat stunned, her chest heaving with fright. Across the front of the shuttle, there was strewn a ghastly blanket of what was apparently some kind of biological matter. It was sopping with gore and fragments of what looked to be bone; and great flaps of thick, leathery tissue stretched across the window at the front, and round to those at the side.  
  
"Ge-Get it off!" stuttered Valerie, "Slow down!"  
  
Kimiko quickly drew the throttle bar backwards, cutting off power to the main thrusters; and as the engine's guttural thrumming subsided, Valerie fired up the shuttle's collar thrusters and forward heat vents. With inertial control back in place, the shuttle quickly began to decelerate, and the two shell-shocked flight cadets watched as the gruesome mess detached from the window, and carried on forward under its own momentum. A patchy covering of deep crimson blood had been left across the window, but the girls could see enough through it to glimpse the appalling object now tumbling away from them. Whatever it was, or once had been, it was large; at least twenty feet from end to end, and as horribly mangled as it was, there could be seen along it's flanks what appeared to be a pair of wings: great, rubbery, claret coloured wings, with wickedly barbed edges.  
  
"Oh, God" whispered Valerie, "It's, it's one of them."  
  
"Holy shit, is it dead?"  
  
Squinting through the blood-spattered window, they could see no sign of life from the beast's carcass, and like some disgusting, fleshy tarpaulin, it floated lifelessly away into the distance. It was at this point, however, as the cadets gazed outwards, that the rest of the creatures came into view. Spread thinly about the region of space in front of them, they lay broken and torn; all appeared to be dead, and presented a sickening sight indeed, some little more than charred lumps of meat. Scattered amidst them were also fragments of metallic wreckage, and the signs were clear that a small skirmish had occurred here.  
  
"I saw them." Said Valerie quietly.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I saw them. When we were attacked. Right before the blast panels went down over the windows, I saw them. Them. They killed everyone."  
  
"I think they got their punishment," said Kimiko, "these ones, at least."  
  
"What happened?" asked Valerie.  
  
Kimiko shook her head, and looked out at the grisly spectacle.  
  
"I don't know. Are they the same ones that attacked the fleet?"  
  
"They must be."  
  
"Well, they must have run into some of ours. Our reinforcements probably, or another fleet." Said Kimiko.  
  
"So where is everybody?"  
  
Kimiko turned to Valerie, and shrugged.  
  
"Probably at the rally point."  
  
Valerie shook her head, and then stared suddenly into the setting in front.  
  
"Hey," she muttered, "What…what's that?"  
  
Kimiko looked around to see what she was looking at, but found nothing.  
  
"What's what?"  
  
"That! What, are you blind? Look! Over there!"  
  
Kimiko narrowed her eyes and searched closely through the wreckage, when a flicker of movement abruptly caught her eye.   
  
"Oh, shit."  
  
Not tumbling inertly through the weightlessness of deep space, but twitching, and convulsing with growing vigour, one of the creatures had apparently managed to survive the engagement. Left grievously wounded, but still very much alive, it now twisted feverishly, and some strange semblance of a mouth flexed open and shut, as it vomited thin spurts of blood.   
  
"We've got to go faster, now." Said Valerie, almost entranced by the beast's writhing display.  
  
"Shit, hold on!"  
  
Kimiko shoved the throttle bar forward, and with a sharp jolt, the shuttle gathered speed once again. As they drew up to it, and began to pass underneath, they saw the creature in all its horrid detail; its wings unfurled to reveal a torso shaped like some massive, serrated maggot, its tail curved, and its mouth gaping like a dreadful, carnivorous fish. As they passed, even in the blink of an eye, it seemed as though its blasted flesh was knitting together, contracting and pulsing as the damage done to it was rapidly healed.  
  
"Oh God damn it, this isn't good." Gasped Kimiko, as they cleared the debris field.   
  
"What's it-"  
  
Valerie was cut short as a dull thump sounded out from the shuttle's rear. With blood still trailing from its body, the hideous creature flew past them from above; it's jagged body scraping across the hull as it went. Moving through the void by some perverted form of gas expulsion, it soared away, and upwards, before rolling around, and diving back towards the hapless shuttle and its terrified pilots. With a speed belying its size, it came on; and from its hellish maw, a sickly jet of bile coloured fluid rained forth onto the back of the shuttle. Kimiko and Valerie both cried out in shock, and heard a sound like rain falling onto a tin roof from the cabin's ceiling behind. Screams suddenly rose from the passengers, as they awoke petrified from their slumber.   
  
"What's going on?" screamed Suzie Palmer through the hatchway. Kimiko glanced backwards and yelled.  
  
"Get down, damn it!"  
  
The creature had hurtled past to the shuttle's rear, and out of sight; inside the cockpit, Valerie scanned quickly over the damage displays.  
  
"Oh God, the hull…"  
  
"What?"  
  
"The roof, the whole roof of the shuttle's turning red grade! If it hits it again, it's going to breach!"   
  
"Oh, shit! Okay…hang on!"  
  
The shuttle groaned as Kimiko pushed it into a forward dive; and with straining arms, she rolled the ship. Far above, they could see the winged beast bearing down, snaking its way towards them.  
  
"What are you doing?" shrieked Valerie, "We've got to get away from it!"  
  
"We can't just head straight, it's too fast! We won't stand a chance!"  
  
"What the hell are you going to do? We can't fight it, we don't have any weapons!"  
  
"No, but we have a hull," said Kimiko wrathfully, "I'm gonna ram it!"  
  
"Are you nuts?"  
  
Before Kimiko could give an answer, the creature tore past, clipping the shuttle with its wing and sending it spinning. With a cry of force, Kimiko wrenched her controls to try and level the ship. As they pulled slowly out of their roll, there came a ringing screech, as their vile pursuer scraped along the ship's belly, before wheeling away ahead of them. Kimiko rammed the throttle bar forward, and while the creature swung around to the right, for another attack, she brought the shuttle ahead of it, leading its movement.   
  
"Now it's our turn!" hollered Kimiko.  
  
The shuttle's engines rumbled laboriously beneath, as they closed on their target. At the last instant, the creature caught sight of the approaching shuttle, and with a spasm of movement, attempted to escape its path; but it was too late. A thunderous crunch shot through the forward hull as the shuttle careered headlong into the beast; its broken, twitching form was flung brutally across the ship's front, before bouncing off to the side. Kimiko and Valerie sat staring, dazed by the impact.  
  
"Ha ha! Take that, you fuck nugget!" squealed Kimiko, peering through the left window.  
  
But her celebrations were premature, and as Kimiko brought them around, they could see the creature thrashing with its massive wings, attempting to right itself. It had been stunned, but was still very much alive.  
  
"No! It's still there!" wailed Valerie, "Come on, hit it again!"  
  
As they drew in to ram it a second time, the creature bolted downwards, and out of the path of the lumbering shuttle. A short second passed; and before Kimiko had even turned her wheel to bring the shuttle around, a shrill grating sound ripped along the rear of the shuttle. The single functioning alarm in the cockpit began to bleep, and as Kimiko regained control of the ship, Valerie searched frantically through the damage screens.   
  
"Oh Jesus, the air! The environment tanks, they've been torn open!"  
  
"What? Oh Christ, how much-"  
  
Metal screamed again as the shuttle's stern was rent, and the frenzied sounds of panic rang out from the cabin. Kimiko stole a look over her shoulder; the shuttle veered, and she saw their precious air supply escaping as a billowing, cloudy trail behind them. Time began to slow, as blood rushed, and suddenly, Kimiko felt her head go light.  
  
A monster, a terrible monster would be the end of them. In her mind, she could hear it roar. No sound escaped the selfish, desolate vacuum around them, but in her head, a monster with barbed wings and a bladed body cried out. It was a foul sound, a nightmarish howl that cut into her, freezing her solid. As the sound of Valerie's crying voice became dim and lost, and her shouts obscured into a distant murmur, she saw it. Almost in awe, she watched, as death stood close, and clouded her vision. It swooped ahead, far ahead and with twisted grace, it turned, and came. Kimiko's hands fell away from her controls, and landed limp at her sides, and with barren eyes, she watched. Valerie had fallen out of her seat, held awkwardly by her safety straps. Was she dead? The world tipped on its side as Kimiko's head lolled. As her eyes drooped, she watched. A flash of light, a cloud of red, and it was all over.  



	23. Chapter 2: The Pilot - Part 7

  
  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
CHAPTER 2: THE PILOT  
PART 7  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
  
A blazing rush of thrust, and the cargo ferry heaved itself into the air and shimmied away into the westering sun. Ian took a moment from collecting his baggage to glance through the terminal window at the landing pads outside. The Ba-Leea stellar traffic facility was coursing with activity; bulk transports filled to capacity with civilians were abandoning the planet, while a stream of military dropships and shuttles delivered troops to the colony's garrisons. Needless to say, the past few months had seen a drastic change in fortunes for the inhabitants of the planet Oporis.  
  
Heavily industrialised, and fiercely loyal to the Confederacy, Oporis had managed to prosper during the Guild Wars, and had become a mainstay for the production of high-grade weapons and machinery. The appearance of the Great Enemy had taken a heavy toll, however, even though Oporis lay more than eight light years from the front line. At the beginning of the War, a substantial region of space nearby had been captured by the enemy's fore runners in a matter of days. The Confederate defences were overwhelmed by the sudden attacks of this vicious new life form, and a dozen planets fell to the alien swarm.   
  
As the Confederate military rallied, this advance force was cut off from the bulk of the enemy, and the front line was established. Those enemy forces trapped in the so-called "Dead Zone" all but disappeared from view, maintaining a shadowy presence over the captured worlds, and attacking any vessels that strayed within their reach. With Confederate forces largely occupied with holding the border, the Dead Zone had been left under the control of the Enemy. Currently they languished like caged animals, silent and invisible, and presented an unremitting threat to the garrison forces which strove to contain them.   
  
Almost a third of Oporis's populace had already departed since the start of the War, seeking the relative safety of neighbouring star systems; in the interim, the planet's governing council had been annexed by Confederate Military Command, and a planet-wide state of emergency had been declared.  
  
Between paying Adira Khan for information, and securing passage to Oporis, Ian's funds had been left severely depleted. At the most, he would have enough left to remain on the planet for a month, but he wouldn't be staying that long. A second dialogue with the "Torch" had revealed that Corporal Tando's unit, the "Infidels" had set out from Oporis four days previously, but the Torch had been unable to determine their destination or assignment. Ian's best hope for finding him was to somehow gain access to the database at one of the garrisons here on the planet and pull his mission files. It was a strange turn of events indeed; a task that, less than a month ago, he could have carried out with a simple requisition message, was now an undertaking fraught with peril. He was a civilian, and if he were to be caught breaking into a Confederate garrison, he would almost certainly be shot.   
  
Ian had learned from the Torch of a small, lightly guarded outpost in Ba- Leea's municipal district, which acted as a communications centre for the forces in surrounding counties. It was a good bet that the files that he was searching for would be held there; whether or not he would be able to retrieve them, however, was a different matter.  
  
There was little reason to delay. His timing had been lucky; as Ian walked through the packs of stellar commuters, and outside into the cold air, night had already begun to settle. A beeping, flashing throng of cars and cargo lorries jockeyed for space in the motor parks surrounding the terminals, and Ian quickly found a seat aboard a passenger bus heading towards the inner city. A thin rain fell as the bus pressed on into the city's centre, and people filtered through the streets like grey spectres. Ian stepped down onto the sidewalk beneath a sweeping drizzle, and amidst a flurry of damp litter. He was growing accustomed to casual wear, and was inconspicuous in his usual dark jacket and slacks, with the remainder of his possessions stowed in a lightweight rucksack.   
  
There was a chill in the night air, and Ian kept a brisk pace towards the eastern side of the central district to stave it off. After a little hunting through the streets, he found his target; the garrison had been set up in an abandoned office building, and as he skulked in a darkened alley across the street, he could see two armed guards posted in front of the doorway, illuminated by a dim street light.   
  
The actual building wasn't a separate structure, but was part of a block, and was framed on either side by derelict shop units and other offices. Fairly meagre in size, the garrison, like every other building in the block, had only three storeys and the walls were tracked with dirt and flecked with peeling paint. On the roof, the tip of a communications mast could be seen glinting against the night sky. The two guards in front stood still and stoical, dressed in dark green overalls, and looking like grim statues in the rain, while Ian looked silently on.   
  
Setting his rucksack down on the side of the alleyway, he crept forward to the alley's opening, and peered closely at the sentries; both were undoubtedly marines, fairly heavy set, one especially so, and each was carrying a standard issue combat shotgun, a weapon easily capable of ripping a man in two with a single blast. There were lights visible through the windows on the first and second storeys; Ian guessed that the office building's computer had been reformatted to handle military signals and store service files, all he had to do was find a console and gain access. Quickly running a few ideas through his head, he settled on the direct approach; with the somewhat heightened state of paranoia amongst the populace there was little chance of him being able to fast talk his way inside, and he was loath to the idea of bribery, regardless of the fact that he hadn't enough money.   
  
Stepping out from the walkway's cover, he started across the narrow street and was quickly noticed by the sentries. As they watched him approach, he mocked a slight swagger, feigning drunkenness, and wheeled around onto the pavement in front of them. In no mood to entertain a drunken vagrant, the guards grumbled and shook their heads; one began to speak out to him, but Ian hadn't come over to start a conversation. Hand to hand fighting; it had been a while.  
  
Hurling himself headlong at the larger sentry, Ian thrust his forearm side-on into his chest sending him toppling backwards, and with a swift kick he sent the guard's weapon spinning along the pavement behind. The other guard had already raised his gun but Ian was on him in a second; he hammered his fist down on the shotgun's casing, and at the same time dealt a fierce kick to the guard's knee. Instinctively letting go of his gun with one hand, he cried out as he staggered back, and was unprepared as Ian delivered another vicious punch to his nose. A second, backhand strike to the man's temple sent him sprawling, and before he had hit the ground, Ian had snatched his weapon and spun around; but the larger guard had already wrestled himself to his feet and leapt forward, grasping the shotgun with both hands. For a brief second the two were locked opposite each other, the weapon gripped between them; before Ian could react, the guard brought his knee savagely up into his stomach. It was a powerful blow, and Ian fell winded to one knee but held fast to the shotgun, pulling the guard low to the ground. Summoning what strength he could, Ian stopped pulling at the shotgun, instead pushing it suddenly forward, and drove it into the guard's face. Bone splintered as the gun's frame impacted, and the guard brought his hands up in front of him, blood streaming from his forehead. Clasping the shotgun at the barrel end, Ian swung with both hands, and clouted the reeling guard across the side of his head; the second heavy blow was too much, and with a strained murmur he collapsed out cold on the sidewalk.  
  
There was no time for Ian to hide the bodies of the unconscious guards; the chances were good that he would be discovered at any time by a foot patrol, or the occupants of the building, so he opted instead to get in and out as quickly as possible. With one hand clutching his stomach, he stepped up to the door and pushed it open, the shotgun pointed out in front, and walked quickly inside. A tight corridor led ahead into the murky darkness; weak yellow lighting cast a stuttering glow over the plastered walls and grimy floorboards. A large door halfway down on the right bore the sign "Relay Office". Ian's ears were pricked, and he made his way forward; a staircase on his left led to the second storey, and both light and sound filtered down. He could hear at least three people on the floor above, and he stepped lightly onto damp flooring to avoid the creaks and clacks that would draw their attention.  
  
The door's round handle turned easily and silently, and Ian carefully pushed it forward an inch and squinted inside. There was little visible within beside the bluish haze of a computer screen; after a moment, with his gun raised, Ian opened the door sharply to catch anyone inside off-guard, but the small room was empty and lifeless save for the muted whining of the communications console. In the low light, Ian sat down, placing the shotgun close at hand and scanned over the interface.  
  
If he was lucky, the mission files for the 88th "Infidels" would be available at this terminal; if they weren't, he would have to open a relay to the Oporis Confederate database to find the information, and he knew of no way of doing so without being detected by the others in the building.   
  
Ian's own experience with Confederate operating systems, along with some hacking tips from the Torch, had given him one or two methods of bypassing the login identity tests, and within a few seconds, he had begun to search through the local database's file catalogue.  
  
"Come on." He muttered.  
  
Half a minute or so passed, and there was apparently no sign of any information regarding the Infidels. Searches by name, rank and unit yielded none of the results he was looking for, but one of the filenames produced caught his eye: a directory titled "FirstSight4". Opening the file, Ian could only access what appeared to be a personnel roster; fifth on the list, however, was the name of Corporal Jon Tando. It was likely that the roster was that of the 88th, but the remainder of the file was heavily encrypted, and it was far beyond Ian's skill to know how to unlock it. Luckily, he knew enough to be able to sever the entire file from its parent directory and duplicate it. Reaching into his pocket, Ian drew out a prepared data disk, and inserting it into the console's drive, he copied the encrypted file onto it.   
  
His task complete, Ian retrieved his disk, and quickly logged out of the database, before making his wary departure. The two sentries were still lying prone on the sidewalk when he walked out of the front doorway; Ian quickly glanced across the street for any sign of activity, before turning his attention to the shotgun in his hand. The various gun oils used on the barrel and casing of the gun would almost certainly obliterate any fingerprints left behind, but to make sure Ian quickly rubbed his sleeve across the handle and the underside of the barrel, before dropping it down beside one of the guards. Another quick look around the street, and then behind and above him at the garrison's windows to make sure that no alarms had been sounded, and he crossed over the road, and disappeared back into the alleyway.  
  
Ian's heart was pounding as he covered the distance back to the lights of the city centre; it had been almost three months since he had seen action in the field, and more than a year since he had last engaged in hand to hand. At thirty seven years of age, Ian was no spring chicken, but lessons learned while training in the Marine Corps faded slowly, if at all; at the end of the day, he was an individual who had been taught how to kill others, and what the mind may have forgotten, the body certainly remembered.   
He was quite relieved, however, that it hadn't been necessary to go that far with the two guards; bruises, some light head trauma, the very worst they would suffer would be ridicule at the hands of their squad mates. In the end Ian deemed that the whole affair had gone off quite well, although his gut would most likely ache for the next day or so. What would cap it off would be if he could get at the data inside the encrypted file, but in order to do that, he would need some help.  
  
The rain had piled on in the last half hour, and was growing heavier still. Drenched down to his skin, Ian sought shelter inside the lobby of one of Baa-Leea's classier hotels, now visibly suffering the effects of the current crisis; the spacious lobby was largely deserted, save for some staff and a few guests, some of whom were watching the news on a nearby wall screen. A sectioned line of Com booths at one end of the lobby afforded Ian the privacy he required, and setting down his rucksack, he opened a com channel, and sent a call to the Torch.   
  
Ian was gradually becoming less apprehensive of his new partner, although he was still a long way off from trusting him; in Ian's mind, an individual who insisted on remaining unseen but who could see you all too easily, was not someone to put a lot of faith in. Regardless, his assistance to date had been near invaluable, and Ian had need of it once again.   
  
The line opened audibly, and once again the telescreen flickered static.  
  
"You look out of breath. How did it go?"   
  
"Fine," replied Ian into the handset, "I think I've got it."  
  
"What, no trouble?"  
  
"Two guards. No trouble. The only problem is, the file's coded, I can't get into it."  
  
"Have you got it on an E.S. disk?" asked the Torch.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"All right, put it into your laptop, and then open a line from the laptop to the Com booth that you're at."  
  
Ian delved into his rucksack, brought out his laptop, and placed it on the booth in front of him; he then checked the cubicle's Com address, and opened a separate phone line from the computer. After inserting the disk into the laptop's drive, he picked the handset back up.  
  
"It's in."   
  
"All right, hang on a minute." Said the Torch.  
  
The drive whirred quietly as the file was accessed via the Com booth. Ian looked into his rucksack at the laptop's screen, program windows opened and closed, and long strings of figures scrolled across the display.  
  
"Hang on…"  
  
An application opened on the screen, apparently some kind of decrypting program of the Torch's, and along the lower edge of the screen, subdirectory headings flashed rapidly.   
  
"Okay. Okay, It's open. Is it on your screen?"  
  
Ian watched as the "FirstSight4" file was brought up onto the display, and the encryption icon on the title bar had been removed. The directory opened with a simple key command, and the contents expanded onto the screen in three separate windows.  
  
"Yes, I can see it."  
  
The three sub-files were apparently the components of a mission briefing; one was an intelligence report of sector F-22 inside the Dead Zone, the second was a stellar map of the sector, and the last appeared to be an account of the mission's objectives, but, as was standard procedure, the whole thing had been written using a cipher.  
  
"Can you read that last file?" asked the Torch.  
  
"No, " said Ian, shaking his head, "it's a military code, but there are hundreds of them in use. I really haven't got a clue. What about you? Haven't you got some kind of program, or system that you can use?"  
  
"Heh. Not really, word ciphers are pretty far removed from file encryptions. Confederate military codes have always been nearly impossible to hack, I'll work on it, but I can't promise anything. Hey, does this map make any sense to you? Cartography's not really my thing."  
  
Ian scanned over the diagram, and traced the route designated for the 88th.  
  
"Yes, I can read it. There's a mission schedule here as well, I should be able to find them." He said.  
  
"That is, if you can actually get inside the Dead Zone. How are you going to get past the Garrison fleet?"  
  
"I'm not sure. All stellar traffic in or out of the Zone's closely monitored, so my best bet would probably be to try and sneak on board a ship heading inside."  
  
As Ian spoke, the news report on the wall screen opposite him caught his eye, and he turned to listen. It was an emergency bulletin, reporting enemy activity about half a light year behind the front line. Those few gathered in front listened intently to the newscaster as she delivered the article.  
  
"NCN sources have reported that a substantial enemy force broke through the front line blockade at around two-thirty yesterday morning. Heavy casualties have been reported, but the Confederate Division for Public Relations have stated that such reports are largely unsubstantiated. C.D.P.R. Spokesman Lionel Gaff had this to say…"  
  
The bulletin cut to a taped interview, and a neat looking, spectacled man in an expensive suit spoke into a batch of reporters' microphones, while around stood a gathering of the press, bystanders and security officers.  
  
"A small complement of enemy units did manage to make it past the blockade, yes, but they were quickly tracked down and neutralised. I must stress that casualties were light, and the situation has now been put under control. We are still-"  
  
"Mr. Gaff, what do you have to say to the reports that a Confederate training fleet in the Phyrriad system was attacked and destroyed by the enemy action?" interrupted a female voice off camera. A murmur arose from the assembled crowd.  
  
"That's completely untrue, there-"  
  
"Reports that say that the fleet was wiped out, that over two thousand young cadets were killed?"  
  
"If you'll let me answer the question, Miss Casey," said the spokesperson, clearly growing riled by the reporter's line of questioning.  
  
"There were no training fleets in the Phyrriad system at the time of the attack, and if there were, they would have been in no danger, thanks to the vigilant efforts of our brave boys and girls on the front line. We are in a sound tactical position in this war, and you can rest assured that it's only a matter of time before we drive those creatures back from our borders, and take the necessary steps to wipe them out, once and for all. Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen, that's all I have."  
  
The screen cut back to the news studio, and the programme moved on to another story.  
  
"What do you think it means?" asked the Torch, having heard the entire bulletin through the handset.  
  
Ian shook his head, and stared grimly down at the map on his laptop's screen.  
  
"It means we'd better get a bloody move on."  



	24. Chapter 2: The Pilot - Part 8

  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 2: THE PILOT  
  
PART 8  
  
By Mayavan Thevendra  
  
  
Cold, dark, damp.  
A chemical scent, and a low, electric hum permeated the air. From somewhere out of sight, dim voices came rolling, echoing between metal walls.   
  
"How're we gonna do this?"  
  
"We ain't. We wait 'til he gets back. Should'n be too long…"  
  
"Huh. Alright. Alright, let's wait."  
  
The voices trailed away into nothingness, their meaning lost. Either seconds or hours passed, and the frosty, stifling air pressed closer; once again, there was quiet.   
  
Kimiko lay awake. Every thought was pain, and every movement a biting, jarring warning. Some caustic taint of the air caused every breath to sting as she drew it, and she shivered feverishly from the cold of her surroundings, although some mild comfort came from the mattress beneath her, stiff though it was. On the edge of hearing came the slow, torturous dripping of water, and steam vents hidden in the gloom broke the rhythm with the occasional sharp hiss. Trapped within this icy vault, she had neither recollection of where she was, nor of how she had arrived there. With considerable difficulty, she at last managed to cast her mind back to past events, although how far in the past they were, she had no idea. She remembered: a shuttle, and a fleet, burning in space. She remembered a dead pilot, and Valerie being an ass, and…  
The fog in her head was breached as images and sounds flashed painfully into focus. The creature. The monstrous flying creature, which had set upon them like a bird of prey; it tore across them again and again, rending the hull with every pass, and at the very end, it had bolted away into the distance, and then swooped in for the kill. Slowly, through the haze the recollection came; the last thing she had seen before losing consciousness. A bright flash: not an explosion, or flames from their own battered craft, but cannon fire. Its ruby flare had struck the creature from one side as it closed, pulverising flesh and bone, and sending it tumbling, a bloody wreck. It rolled; limp and lifeless, and then blackness had fallen.   
  
It might have been a year ago, for all Kimiko knew. Soon she was struck by a sense of urgency, and of pressing danger, but despite her efforts, she could not move. Past the pain was a numbness which sapped all strength from her limbs, and dulled her senses. Eventually, overwhelmed by pain and exhaustion, she slipped once again into unconsciousness.  
  
-----------------------------------------  
  
"So what the fuck is this?"  
  
The words were spat rather than spoken, and done with volume enough to wrest Kimiko from her uneasy sleep. Fear took hold immediately, however; she kept her eyes firmly closed, and listened.  
  
"This? This is what we found in the pilot's seat."   
  
Another voice, perhaps one of those she had heard before.  
  
"Mag filters on their ship were burned out, so she picked up some rads from the outside, but nothin' serious. We gave her a shot to clean her out, same as the others."  
  
"What others?"  
  
"The uh, nine others that we found in there with her."  
  
Another voice. There were three of them, three men standing over her; Kimiko's chest went tight.  
  
"There were some others, but they were already dead. Had been for a while. The live ones are over in Freight two. They were out cold when we dragged em' in, but this one, she was kicking and screaming and biting, even in her sleep, so we dumped her in here. Huh. Couldn't believe it when we found 'em all. Weirdest thing I ever saw."  
  
"I'll bet. Who are they?"  
  
"Confederates. Look like cadets."  
  
"All of them?"  
  
"Naw, there's a woman with them. She was banged up pretty bad, we gave her some medical. She'll live."  
  
There was movement to her right, as one of them paced along the length of her bed. A sigh followed.  
  
"Salvage, boys. You know what that means, right? Metal? Wreckage? Machinery? These things ring any bells?"  
  
"Yeah, Grill, we towed their shuttle back too, but, well I figured we could make a little extra. I know this trash monkey, works in the Cour' Doba system, him an' his crew found one 'emselves one of those luxury stellar tugs a while back, got attacked by pirates or somethin', an' it was full of rich suckers. Sold the tug for a peach, and got twenty-five thou' from slavers and den pimps for the cargo, I ain't shittin' ya!"  
  
"Man, but these are Confederates! We, hell, we could probably ransom these little pricks back to their school or somethin', man! Right, Grill?"  
  
A snort of derision.  
  
"Ransom? You're a fine junker Deke, but you're not too smart. D'you honestly think the Confederacy gives two shits about 'em? Believe me, they couldn't care less."  
  
A pause. Kimiko's chest was beginning to flutter involuntarily, and she could feel a pressure building in her throat.  
  
"But we can probably get a good deal for'em on Sengel. We might get ten, maybe fifteen thousand outta them. They like teenagers on Sengel. A lot."   
  
With her eyes closed, Kimiko couldn't see "Grill's" face, but she could almost feel his crooked grin, even colder than the air around her. Fear gave way to sudden anger, and she was unable to hold her ruse; the rasping cough that had been building in her throat for the last minute exploded out. Kimiko wheezed, breathlessly, and looked up at her captors.  
  
"Well, looky." Sneered Grill, "She's awake."  
  
Through cracked lips, Kimiko hissed a faint reply.  
  
"Buh-bastard."  
  
"Heh. And alert, by the sound o' things."  
  
A dim electric bulb on the wall behind her cast a wavering glow over the room; evidently it was a small storage cell of some sort, and was littered with pieces of junk and scrap metal. The three men were dressed in grease-stained grey overalls; the one called "Grill" was wearing a grimy red neckerchief, and grafted onto the left side of his face was a cybernetic enhancement of some kind, most likely an optical device but attached in a rather gruesome fashion. From what Kimiko had heard of their conversation, it was obvious that they were junk scavengers: generally scraped up from the dregs of Terran society, "Junkers" were nomadic traders who dealt in scrap and derelict vehicles, often resorting to theft, hijacking or even murder to acquire their goods. She had evidently been taken back to her captors' base, wherever that was.  
  
"You got nothing better to say to me, sweetcheeks?" leered Grill.  
  
"Fuck you." Grunted Kimiko.  
  
Grill gave a look of mock disapproval, and then grinned.  
  
"Well don't that beat all. My boys tell me you've been here two days. That's two days you've taken advantage of our hospitality, and that's all you can think to say. And after they went and saved your life no less."   
  
He shook his head slowly, watched keenly by his sniggering companions.  
  
"You know, you would have been floatin' waste if not for us." He said with a quiet, steely voice, "Tavis here was mighty swift in hauling your worthless behinds into his bird, and he even gave you medical attention. And no gratitude for it at all. I don't know, kids these days, hunh?"  
  
He chuckled dryly, and gave a knowing wink to the other two. They had indeed saved Kimiko's life, and the lives of the others, if what they had said was true; but she knew only too well that any fair treatment from then on was to ensure a better price at whatever meat-market the junkers had in store for them. Kimiko remained silent.  
  
"Well never mind," sneered Grill, "Doesn't take long to learn manners. I'm sure someone'll teach you."   
  
He took a step back, and turned to leave, when Tavis stopped him.  
  
"Do you want me to tie her?" he asked.  
  
Grill glanced back, and looked Kimiko over.  
  
"What did you give her for the radiation?"  
  
"Turol, ah, Turol…"struggled Tavis.  
  
"Terlazine?"  
  
"Yeah, Terlazine."  
  
"Ok," sniffed Grill, "then don't bother, she won't be moving anywhere for another day or two. 'Sides, market doesn't like it when you bring girl meat in with rope burns all over 'em. Lock the door though."  
  
With a rusty whine, the heavy metal door swung closed, and Kimiko heard the heavy clunk of the lock turning. Footsteps sounded away, and grew dim, and then at last silence returned.  
  
The lamp had been left turned on, but the world seemed to Kimiko to grow suddenly dark, and distant. She struggled to think back to a time before all of this, a time when her most pressing problems were poor grades and shoddy attendance. As oppressive an environment as the training fleet was, it was still her home. With no family left of her own, it was all she knew, and yet still she had seemed to suffer less than the others at its destruction. She was homeless now, perhaps as she was meant to be, she thought to herself; a wandering vagrant, no more respectable than the scavengers who had captured her. Her foolish desire had brought her here, to this. And still, it burned within her, as it had always done; lying there in her prison, she felt the steel walls melt away, and suddenly she was free, soaring, reaching higher, farther. With a click, the lamp switched off, and blackness fell again. The walls felt close and menacing, now that Kimiko knew they were there.  
  
The darkness sunk in against her, but her mind had begun to clear. She had to escape.  
  
  



	25. Chapter 2: The Pilot - Part 9

  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 2: THE PILOT  
  
PART 9  
  
By Mayavan Thevendra  
  
  
For Kimiko, the hour after her captors had left her room was an exercise in frustration. Though her head had cleared a little, and the pain had subsided, her body remained thoroughly numb, and what occasional movement she could muster was weak, and spastic. Apparently this was the side effect of the "Terlazine" injection, given to her by the junkers to flush the radiation from her system. This being the case, it was unlikely that sheer willpower alone would be enough to overcome her paralysis; and yet, that was all she had. She thought briefly of crying out for help, desperately imagining that there might be some friendly soul nearby who was willing to aid her, but common sense quickly put an end to such an idea. Things seemed bleak indeed; she was more or less completely immobile, and at any moment the door could open, for her to be carted off to some slave auction in the darkest depths of Confederate space. Once in the hands of the market traders, her chances of escape would be virtually nil even if she were able to move; slaves were incredibly valuable on the backwater worlds, and no precaution was too strict, or too brutal to ensure they couldn't escape. She had to get away now or else all was lost, but there was simply no way to do it.   
Suddenly, what little hope there was disappeared from sight; with a clunk, the door unlocked and began to swing open. Kimiko closed her eyes. Footsteps approached her bed, surely she was done for; feigning sleep would not deter them, but she could think of nothing else. A body stood paused next to her, waiting, watching; she had to act now, but how? What could she do?  
  
"Oh God. Satomi. Satomi, wake up, damn it!"  
  
Kimiko's eyes flicked open, and searched the darkness to her side. A murky figure leaned forward, and groped around the wall behind her head. After a few seconds, the searching hand found the switch for the small wall-lamp, and a face smeared with blood and grease appeared in the pale light.   
  
"Holy shit!" wheezed Kimiko.  
  
For the very first time, but certainly not the last, Kimiko was decidedly glad to find herself in the company of Valerie Mailer. She looked very much worse for wear with a torn, stained jumpsuit and her long hair matted into clumps; a far cry indeed from the pristine and insuperable cadet who had been the scourge of the Guiding Hand.  
  
"Christ, Mailer, what the hell are you doing here?"  
  
"Saving your ass, Satomi," said Valerie, glancing quickly back towards the doorway, "Now come on!"  
  
"I can't, I can't frickin' move! They gave me a shot of something, I can't even feel my damn legs!"  
  
"Oh God, it must have been that Terlazine I saw them carrying"  
  
"Yeah," gasped Kimiko, gritting her teeth, "They said it'll take a day to wear off, I can't…"  
  
"Don't worry, I know what Terlazine does. You're gonna be able to move, but you'll need some help to do it."  
  
Carefully and quietly, Valerie slid Kimiko's legs down onto the floor, and placed her arms around Kimiko's waist.   
  
"You wouldn't have been able to move by yourself, just lying there," Said Valerie, "not with the Terlazine sitting in your muscle tissue, but if you're moved around by someone else, it should get forced out, and the effects should wear off. Can you feel anything yet?"  
  
Kimiko shook her head.  
  
"No, not a damn thing."  
  
"Okay, I'm gonna have to drag you out."  
  
"Wait! You can't!" said Kimiko "if they find I'm gone, they'll tear this whole fuckin' place apart looking for us."  
  
"No, they won't. They've all gone, they left about half an hour ago, and I heard them say they wouldn't get back for another three or four hours. I think there's only one of them left around, and I saw him sleeping. We've got to go now, we won't get another chance!"  
  
"All right. All right, let's go." Panted Kimiko.  
  
Gripping Kimiko's waist as tightly as she could, Valerie hoisted her down off the bed, and began to drag her across the room to the doorway.  
  
"How did you open the door?" Whispered Kimiko.  
  
"Those idiots left the key on a table, just outside," said Valerie, peering out into the hallway. "Just over there."  
  
"Do you know where we are?"  
  
"Yeah. I think it's an old stellar watch-station, from the Guild War days. They've fixed it up a little, and re-energised the power core, and I think they've built some kind of makeshift hangar onto the hull where they keep their ships, and all of the junk that they tow in. Come on, over here."   
  
As Valerie hauled her along the rusty flooring, Kimiko began to feel sensation returning to her feet; at first nothing more than a slight tingle, after a few paces, she found that she was able to wiggle her toes inside her boots.   
  
"Hey, I think my legs are coming back."  
  
"Good, keep trying to move." Said Valerie.  
  
The corridors of the station were of the same cut as Kimiko's improvised prison cell; dim, cold and littered with junk. The surging hum of the station's power core grew louder and deeper as they made their way on through the walkway; soon they arrived at a T-junction, where Valerie turned left, and brought the two of them along an unlit, narrow corridor. Reaching the end, she quickly found a low bar handle, and wrenched open a small, lightweight door. The space beyond was pitch black.  
  
"Hang on," said Valerie, "I left a flashlight next to the door."  
  
With one hand still supporting Kimiko, she reached around to the side of the doorway, and with a soft click, a wide, dim yellow beam was cast over the room; it was yet another small storage space, but filled with wooden crates rather than metallic junk, as well as what looked like wrapping material. Very carefully, Valerie laid Kimiko down on top of a thin sheet of plastic binding, and went back to close the door.  
  
"Oh God" murmured Kimiko.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I think, I think I'm getting a fever or something. I feel warm."  
  
"No, it's okay," replied Valerie, " there's a few power cables near the back of the room. Their casings have started to burn away, so they're giving off a little heat; you've just got to make sure you don't touch them."  
  
Valerie walked back and knelt down beside Kimiko, and picked up her limp right hand.  
  
"Can you feel this?"   
  
Kimiko furrowed her brow, and thought for a moment.  
  
"I think so. I can feel something."  
  
"Okay, look, I'm going to have to do some 'physio on you. Think I remember how to…"  
  
"All right, but just - don't break anything, okay, Mailer? Remember, I can't feel any pain right now."  
  
"Now there's a shame."  
  
With slightly hesitant hands, Valerie began to bend, and extend Kimiko's arms and legs, gradually forcing the last traces of Terlazine from Kimiko's muscles.  
  
"I swear, Satomi. You owe me so big for this." Said Valerie, as she broke into a sweat, a rare occurrence to say the least.  
  
"Yeah?" smirked Kimiko, " Whaddya want, a medal? How the hell did you get away, anyway? Did they bring you in from our shuttle or what?"  
  
"Yeah, they did. But lucky for me, they didn't count everybody until they'd offloaded them all into their hangar, and I came to before then. I think I was like the seventh or eighth to be brought out, and while they went back to their ship to get you, I ran and hid."  
  
"How come you could move after the injection?" asked Kimiko.  
  
"They hadn't given them yet. They did that after they'd laid everybody out onto the hangar floor, and then they dragged all of you off right afterwards. I saw when they brought you out, you were screaming and thrashing like a little kid, I think it was because of the oxygen overexposure in the cockpit, or, or something like that; it's the same reason why I woke up first. Anyway, they stuck you in that other room, so I figured I'd be able to get to you more easily than the others. I snuck around a little; there's dozens of little rooms like this one, most of which they never even go into, so I picked this one, and I've been hiding here for the past two days. When I saw that most of the junkers had gone off somewhere, I guessed it was the best time to come and get you."  
  
"Jesus. It really has been two days" Replied Kimiko, quietly.  
  
"Yeah, God I'm so hungry. I managed to steal some of their water, but that's all I've had."  
  
"It's weird, but I don't feel all that hungry." Said Kimiko.  
  
"That'll be the Terlazine. God, I can't believe anyone actually still uses that stuff." Scowled Valerie.  
  
"Hey, wait a minute. If you haven't had the injection, then, then aren't you…"  
  
"Still radiated. Yep." Said Valerie with a weak smile.  
  
"Christ, Mailer!"  
  
"No, it's okay, I'm pretty sure none of us got that big a dose. I'll be all right for another few days. But we've got bigger things to worry about right now."  
  
"Yeah, guess you could say that. Do the others know that you're around?"  
  
Valerie stopped working on Kimiko's leg, and brought her hands up to her face, a tinge of despair suddenly crossing her eyes.   
  
"Oh God, I don't think they've even woken up yet. Damn it, Satomi, what the hell are we going to do? Even if there's some way we can get out of here, how are we going to take the others? We can't carry them all!"  
  
"Come on, take it easy," said Kimiko, "let's take this one step at a time. Have you been down to the hangar again, since?"  
  
"No, I-I've been too scared."  
  
"Well, what about those junkers? Where did they go?"  
  
"They went off to do a job, I think. Some big ship that they just found, they needed most of their shuttles to bring it in, I think there's one left in the hangar."  
  
"What about the other junker, the one who didn't go with them."  
  
"He's in the canteen. It's about, I don't know, thirty metres past the room where they put you, in the other direction. I saw him sleeping in there, I'm sure he was sleeping."  
  
"Mailer, if we can get everyone into that shuttle in the hangar, then we can make it."  
  
"But what if he wakes up?" said Valerie, pointing in the direction of the canteen. "he'll, he'll…"  
  
"We've gotta try, we can't stay here!"  
  
"Damn it, Satomi, what the hell makes you think you know what you're doing? If they catch us, we're dead! We've, we've got to be able to reason with them, we're Confederates, for God's sake! We've got rights!"  
  
"What, have you lost your fucking nut, Mailer?" hissed Kimiko, "They're junkers! You know what they're gonna do to us, don't you? They're gonna sell us! You must've heard them, we can't bargain with them, or reason with them!"  
  
"How would you know?" replied Valerie, a tear welling in her eye, "How would you know what they're like?"  
  
"I know junkers." Replied Kimiko sternly. "They're scum. They're all scum, every one of them! Come on, Mailer, don't bug out on me now; you busted me out of there, and now you want us to walk right back up to them and say 'we're sorry, let's make a deal'? Mailer, come on. We've got to go. We've got to go now."  
  
Valerie sat still, and then eventually nodded, her chest visibly heaving with fright.  
  
"You're right. You're right. I'm okay." She said, her voice wavering, "Okay. I'm, I'm going to go and see if I can wake the others. I think they left the key outside their room too. Can you move yet?"  
  
Kimiko strained, and clenched her teeth; suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, her right arm shot up, scarcely missing Valerie's chin. With some difficulty, Kimiko managed to rock from side to side, and eventually rolled onto her hip.   
  
"I-I think I can move my legs. Are they moving?"  
  
Valerie looked down to see Kimiko's left leg sweeping slowly back and forth along the ground.   
  
"One of them is. Keep trying. The more mobile you are when we go, the better."  
  
"Okay. Look, you'd better get going. I'll be all right. Just be careful, and remember, we're all getting out, right?" said Kimiko, only slightly worried that Valerie might do something foolish, such as trying to bargain with the junker in the canteen.  
  
"Yeah, don't worry Satomi! God! I said I was okay!"  
  
Valerie quietly and slowly opened the door, and peered away into the weak light of the corridor, twenty feet away, before slipping out.   
  
"Be right back." She said, before closing the door once again.  
  
Kimiko had a runny nose from the cold of her room, and she was still shivering, but the faint heat emanating from the rear of the room was a godsend. Kicking and punching the air, and slithering about on the ground, she made sound progress; both sensation and control were returning slowly, but certainly. She reckoned on waiting for a minute, and then trying to stand up. Definitely in a minute, but no more. Time was of the essence.  
  
  
  
  



	26. Chapter 2: The Pilot - Part 10

  
  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 2: THE PILOT  
  
PART 10  
  
By Mayavan Thevendra  
  
  
  
The sun had just appeared over the distant rim of Oporis when Ian arrived at the Reading Par orbital platform. Amidst the frenetic military activity on the planet, he had managed to secure passage to the station aboard a light trading ferry on its way out of the system, but it hadn't been cheap. Of Ian's remaining two hundred odd dollars, another hundred and fifty persuaded the ship's captain to "forget" to include him in the cargo and passenger manifesto when it was submitted to Stellar Traffic Control, and with some careful manoeuvring, he was able to slip aboard the station unnoticed.  
  
By now, Corporal Tando's unit, the "Infidels", had been missing for nearly five days. Ian didn't want to think about what the chances were that he had been killed, or about the chances of finding him, if he hadn't. Newly awakened instincts warned him that there wasn't enough time to stop and consider things; his journey had to be made quickly.  
  
The fleet blockading the border into the Dead Zone lay four hours away by subwarp drive; the only way to approach it would be aboard a military vessel. If any of the cruisers or attack frigates had been docked at Reading Par, then Ian's job would have been simpler; their sheer size and crew number meant that sneaking on board was a relatively easy affair, especially for a former serving commander who was familiar with Confederate security protocols. The nature of the blockade, however, meant that the Capital class ships were forced maintain their position on the border at all times, and used troop transports to ferry cargo and personnel to and from their anchorage at Oporis. Stealing onto a small transport would be problematic enough, but there was the added obstacle of breaking through the blockade; no ships, military or otherwise, were permitted to pass through into the Dead Zone. Even deep space scavengers had sense enough to heed the Confederate warnings.  
  
Reading Par was one of the older orbital constructions that Ian had visited; shaped like an enormous hourglass, it spun slowly in space, using centrifugal force rather than more modern magnetic rails to simulate gravity. The station was sectioned and compartmentalised, so it was impossible to see from one side of the interior to the other, although some of the docking bays were large enough to notice the curvature of the hull. There had been a permanent state of tension aboard the station since the blockade had been put in place; most of the current inhabitants were from one branch of the military or another, along with those few canny traders who sought to turn a profit from the current crisis.  
  
Ian made his way into the visitor's foyer, a large busy hall, lined with telescreens and communication booths. Entering one of the unoccupied cubicles, he opened a line, and sent a call to the Torch. It was time for another favour.  
  
"Alright, we've got a safe line. What's happening?" asked the now familiar voice.  
  
"I'm on Reading Par," answered Ian, "If I can get onto one of the troop transports, then that'll be enough for now; I can figure out what to do next once I get to the blockade."  
  
"Can you board one without being seen?"  
  
"A transport? Not in a million years. And I can't very well commandeer one either, I'm going to have to pose as one of the listed passengers."  
  
"What do you need?"  
  
"Flight timetables," said Ian, "and platoon rosters."  
  
"No problem, give me a second."  
  
Ian heard the faint clicking of a keyboard, presumably as the Torch accessed the Reading Par mainframe. He briefly wondered if there was any computer system that was beyond the Torch's reach; wherever he was, he apparently had access to equipment advanced enough to break through Confederate file encryptions as though they were non-existent.   
  
"Did you manage to crack the code on that other file?" asked Ian, remembering the data he had retrieved from the outpost in Ba-Leea.  
  
"Not yet. I sent it over to a friend of mine; he's got more experience with word ciphers than I have. I'll let you know as soon as he gets anything. Here's the info."  
  
On the Com booth's video display, a string of figures and names scrolled into view. After a quick inspection, Ian found that a large, newly conscripted platoon, the 347th "Steel Flints" had just assembled aboard the station, and were shortly due to be ferried across to the blockade to act as crisis troops, in the event that infantry units would be needed. From the brief platoon background that the Torch had retrieved, Ian read that the Steel Flints had recently been formed specifically to serve on the Dead Zone blockade. What's more, they had come from at least a dozen different sources: other units, boot camps, as well as resocialisation institutes. In such a new unit the chances were good that no one member of the unit was particularly well known by any of the others, and would be missed if Ian were to take his place.  
  
"Don't go anywhere. I'll need you again." Said Ian, and closed the line.  
  
Looking slightly out of place in crumpled clothes, and carrying a rucksack, he moved quickly; in due course, his discreet meanderings brought him to the "West Wing", one of the several bars aboard Reading Par, and now a popular drinking spot amongst the station's marine contingent.  
  
There was music, and conversation, and a good deal of alcohol, but more importantly to Ian, there were lots of people. Settling into a quiet corner, he sat and watched. There were perhaps fifty people present; some clustered in large, noisy groups, arranged around tabletops slick with spilt beer, others sat in quiet twos and threes at the bar or next to the large window screen at the side, where there was a panoramic view of Oporis' northern continent. At the far end of the room, at a small table next to the emergency exit, there was a fairly young man sitting alone with an empty shot glass. A new recruit. Ian had seen thousands of them during his career; no matter what sort of a person they were in the outside world, they all took on a certain look as soon as they joined the Corps. From the look of him, Ian guessed he was a resocialisation job; he had a fresh face, and he'd apparently buried his nerves under several measures of whiskey, but there was an indefinable look in his eyes that Ian had seen before in other neurally reformed conscripts. A thick patch sewn onto the right shoulder of his fatigues bore the number 347; he was a Steel Flint. Glancing around, Ian could see other members of the 347th, none of whom took great pains to be sociable with the other marines; but the fellow in the corner was the only one of them who was by himself.   
  
Ian grabbed his rucksack and sidled over to the bar and bought a bottle of light beer, then walked slowly around the crowd, and over to the new recruit at the table.  
  
"Mind if I sit?" he asked.  
  
The marine looked up, his eyes slightly glassy, and gave a casual nod. Ian set his pack underneath the table, and took a seat next to him. It looked as though he had stopped drinking shots for the night, although Ian couldn't figure whether it was due to good judgement, or simple lack of funds. He took a slow sip from his bottle; the brew was a native product of Oporis, and was remarkably strong for a supposedly "light" beer. Ian set it back down on the table, and looked over at the marine.  
  
"Been in the Corps long, have you?"  
  
"Mmh?" said the marine, shaking his head. Ian leaned over.  
  
"I said, have you been in the Corps long?"  
  
"Oh. Unnh, no. No, I finished training two months ago. You a marine?"  
  
"Me? No, no," replied Ian with a wave of his hand, "I'm in engineering."  
  
"Oh." Said the marine with a nod, and then looked back towards the bar.  
  
"You, uh, want another, mate?" asked Ian, pointing at his empty tumbler.  
  
"What? Oh, no thanks. I've probably had enough tonight. 'Sides, I'm out of cash, anyway."  
  
"Both" thought Ian to himself. "Hey, what unit are you in?" he asked.  
  
The marine tapped his shoulder and smiled.  
  
"347th Steel Flints."  
  
"Good unit?"  
  
"They're okay, I guess. I only met them yesterday. Haven't even met our C.O. yet, and there's no time for an initiation, we're getting shipped out to the blockade tomorrow."   
  
He tilted his head over towards Ian.  
  
"We're supposed to be, y'know, taking it easy tonight. No booze. But I figured what the hell, it's not like we're gonna have a lot to do once we get out there. We'll prob'ly just end up sitting on one of the damn frigates for a month, playing cards or something." He said with a dour chuckle.  
  
"So, how come you joined the marines then?" asked Ian with a fake smile, "Were you looking to become a hero, bring a little glory back to your home planet?"  
  
The marine gave a brisk shake of his head, and then stared solemnly down into his empty glass.  
  
"No, I'm uh, I'm here under direction."  
  
"You're what?"  
  
"I, I came out of the Confederate Resocialisation Institute on Carta Fax. I'm…resocialised." He said, looking up at Ian. Ian gave a friendly nod and shrugged his shoulders.  
  
"Well," he said, "doesn't mean you're a bad person, does it?"  
  
"Nope. Just that I used to be. Heh."  
  
"What was it that you did? I mean, that put you in prison?" asked Ian.  
  
"Can't remember. And they didn't tell me when I came out. They just gave me this refresher course on what's what. Name and birth-date and stuff like that. I don't think about it much anymore." Said the marine quietly, apparently seeking an end to the topic.  
  
Ian nodded and took another sip from his drink. The first resocialised marine he had ever met had been in the Windtails, nearly twenty years ago. He didn't last very long. The first recipients of the neural reconditioning treatment had been programmed with exemplary behaviour and a supposedly flawless sense of ethics. Most of them suffered from severe rejection disorders, because the new neural patterns were so far removed from their own. Paranoia, depression and acute insomnia were among the more harmless symptoms, but there were many reports of suicide, schizophrenia, sudden and violent seizures, and dangerously psychotic behaviour, enough so that any platoon with a reformed marine was put at an unacceptable risk. Subsequent advances in the field allowed physicians to tailor the treatment given depending on the subject's psychological makeup; traits such as obedience and composure were still implanted to varying degrees, but the recipients emerged from the treatment as vastly more ordinary individuals than their predecessors, with flaws and fears as well as hopes and dreams.  
  
Generally speaking, Ian wasn't entirely sure what to make of them. Perhaps it was his old-fashioned values that brought about a certain mistrust in him, or perhaps it was merely an irrational fear. The old maxim "Once a thief, always a thief" kept coming to mind; it was hard for Ian to believe that a person could change so much, even with the aid of revolutionary science.  
  
"So what time do you set out tomorrow?" asked Ian, already knowing the answer.   
  
"Uhh, 1200 CST." Said the marine, checking his watch.  
  
"Well, it's only ten now." said Ian, "The night's young, and I've got some friends who are throwing a little party in one of the freight hangars. What do you say? Care to join us?"  
  
"Aww, I don't know. Y'know, I just about reached my limit for the night. I'm not really into binge drinking."  
  
"There's plenty of things to do at a party other than drink. There's a couple of girls I know who've been going out of their way to meet marines. I get the feeling they'd like you."   
  
This sort of approach was entirely new to Ian, and he suddenly became very aware of how sleazy he sounded. The marine leaned away, and looked at him with narrow eyes, and a faint smile.  
  
"Who the hell are you, anyway?"  
  
"I told you, I'm an engineer."   
  
"Uh-huh. And is there some reason why you like hanging around with marines, pal?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.  
  
"Yes, they're always such a good laugh. You've never been an engineer, have you mate? It's as dull as pigshit. You've got to take the laughs when you can get them, that's what I always say." Said Ian, taking another swig of beer, and trying his best to remain convincing. Apparently he was; after a pause, the marine raised his hands in resignation.  
  
"Heh. Alright pal, you got me. Lead on." He stood up, slightly unsteadily, and reached down with his right hand.  
  
"Name's Turvey, Private Craig Turvey."  
  
"Bill Spencer." Said Ian, shaking Turvey's hand.  
  
"Nice to meet you, Bill." Said Turvey with a grin. "Okay, let's go find this party of yours, but I gotta tell you now, I'm only going to be able to stay for an hour or two. That's what it's like in the marines, buddy. It's all about discipline. Discipline on duty, discipline off duty. It's tough, but that's the way it is."  
  
Ian smiled at Turvey's ramblings, and retrieved his rucksack from underneath the table.  
  
"Yes, I can imagine."  
  
After leaving the West Wing, the two of them walked towards the outer ring of the station, and headed towards the docking bays. Fortunately Private Turvey chose not to quiz Ian on why he insisted on carrying a rucksack around with him, and followed on behind quite contentedly, only occasionally checking his wristwatch. Having been this way before, Ian took care to pass by a set of toilets, at which point he subtly slowed his pace. He had been hoping that an evening spent in the bar had taken its expected toll on the marine's bladder. Almost on cue, Turvey caught sight of the men's room sign, and called out.  
  
"Ho, ahh, hang on, Bill. I, uh, gotta go take care of business." He said, and walked inside.  
  
In this section of the platform, close to the freight hangars and loading bays, the corridors were mostly deserted, save for the occasional wandering technician. After a few seconds, Ian took a last look to check no one was about, and then opened the men's room door. Around a corner, five cubicles filled the left wall, and past the sinks on the right was a line of five urinals, of which Turvey had taken the one closest to the door. The room was apparently empty, save for the two of them, but the cubicles had to be checked. Very slowly, Ian leaned forward, and peered underneath the doors. He could see that the first two were empty, but he couldn't see underneath the others without walking behind Turvey, and he made a guess that the marine was still sober enough to notice him. Changing his plan, Ian discarded his secrecy, and walked casually around to Turvey's left side.  
  
"Oh hey, fancy meeting you here." Joked Turvey, as he glanced briefly towards him.  
  
Ian smiled, and then while Turvey's attention was elsewhere, he quickly checked the other three cubicles. Empty. Ian didn't waste any time. In a swift, sharp movement, he brought the heel of his palm into the base of Turvey's skull. He was already leaning forward, and the sudden blow drove his head into the hard, tiled wall with some considerable force. To Ian's relief, one hit was enough; Turvey staggered, and then crumpled silently into a heap on the floor. Slinging his rucksack down onto the floor, Ian quickly retrieved a roll of thin rope, and proceeded to tie Turvey's hands behind his back, as well as bind his knees together, and then stuffed his mouth with a wad of toilet tissue. Turvey's credentials were held in a wallet in his belt, which Ian pocketed. He then removed the unconscious marine's dogtags, and placed them around his own neck. Finally, he dragged him into the last stall, propped him on top of the commode, and tied a length of cord between his elbows and the water pipes at the rear of the cubicle. With any luck, the combination of alcohol, and a concussion would keep Turvey out of action until afternoon the next day, by which time Ian would hopefully have left the station with the other Steel Flints. The caretakers had already cleaned the toilets for the day, and wouldn't return until the next evening, and anyone looking underneath the door would only see a pair of legs, and so assume that the stall was occupied. A small hook tied to the end of a cord enabled Ian to lasso the security latch, and, after a couple of attempts, lock the door from the outside.   
  
"Sorry about this, Private." Whispered Ian, as he picked up his rucksack and left the men's room.   
  
  
Activity aboard the station was beginning to wane as midnight approached, and most of the civilian staff had switched over to the military night watch. Ian didn't make any effort to avoid the security cameras on his way back to the inner ring; once Turvey had been found, and he'd given his account of what had happened to him, it was a dead certainty that Ian would be identified, but as long as he was on the other side of the blockade when it happened, it didn't matter. At the moment, Ian was thinking only a single, desperate step ahead; he didn't have the luxury of time, or the necessary resources to do any more.   
  
A small observation lounge brought a video communication booth, and Ian retrieved Turvey's wallet, and sent a call to the Torch.  
  
"I've got a name." Said Ian, "Private Craig Turvey. I'm taking his place on the transport tomorrow."  
  
"Okay. Where's Private Turvey now?"  
  
"He's taking a restroom break. A long one." Said Ian.  
  
"I see. Alright, what is it that you want me to do?"  
  
Ian took a brief look around, and checked that he wasn't being overheard.  
  
"Well, you're going to have to substitute my essential details with Turvey's. Marine registry photograph, fingerprint I.D., retinal scan, everything except name and bio."  
  
"What makes you think I have your "essential details"?" replied the Torch.   
  
"How about you level with me?" said Ian, "Every com booth with a video relay that I've used, like this one, you've seen my face. Bearing in mind your apparent knowledge of computers, I'd guess it was a relatively easy task for you to match my face against any record databases you may have hacked into. In fact, I'd find it extremely unlikely if you haven't. So let's just drop the pretence, all right?"  
  
"All right," said the Torch, after a short pause, "Commander."  
  
"I'm not a commander anymore." Said Ian, tersely.  
  
"You're right. Mister Latimer, then."  
  
Another pause. Ian had rather gotten used to the anonymity that he was working under. He had suspected from their first contact that the Torch knew who he was, but having it confirmed was still somewhat disconcerting. The thought of anyone, friend or foe, knowing so much about him was unappealing.  
  
"Have you got any of his details?" asked the Torch eventually. Ian nodded.  
  
"Then hold them up. It'll save me having to do a separate hack."  
  
Ian pulled Turvey's birth certificate, and marine registry slips from his wallet, and held them in front of the booth's video camera.   
  
" Okay, I've already got your I.D. details on file. Hang on." Said the Torch.  
  
"So, are you going to even the odds, or not?" asked Ian.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Well, you know who I am. How about returning the favour?"  
  
A soft chuckle rustled through the speaker.  
  
"I'll tell you what Mister Latimer. If it ever becomes necessary for you to know who I am, then rest assured, I'll tell you. Until then, though, it's probably better that you don't know. Not all information is power. Some of it's just dangerous."  
  
"Are you saying that my knowing who you are would put me in danger?" asked Ian.  
  
"You. Or me."   
  
"Well. I suppose I can't argue with that."  
  
"Heh. You can." Replied the Torch, "but I'd appreciate it if you didn't. So, anyway, how about you? What do you make of civilian life so far?"  
  
"I'm not an expert, but I wouldn't exactly call this civilian life." Said Ian.  
  
"Ha. Yeah, good point. Still, it must be strange. You were in the marines for, what, eighteen years?"  
  
Ian shook his head.   
  
"I suppose next, you'll be telling me what my favourite food is?"  
  
"Sorry, just making conversation. This hack's going to take a while."  
  
"No, it's alright." Said Ian. "Look, what else can you tell me about Corporal Tando?"  
  
"Not much. I don't know a whole lot about him beyond what's in his files. But he's the only person who seems to have any clue about what's going on. About what it is that we're dealing with."  
  
"Yes, I wonder what that is." Ian replied quietly.  
  
"Confederate intelligence keeps claiming that it can predict enemy actions in the same way as you might be able to calculate behavioural patterns in animals."  
  
"Animals. They're more than that." Sneered Ian.  
  
"Yeah, we know that. But if we're right, then there should be some way to prove it. Maybe that's what Tando was up to. He assured me that he was onto something big. Damn it, this whole time, Confederate PR's got the public convinced that the enemy's nothing more than a horde of mindless insects. If there was some way we could blow the cover open. Show people what it is that's tearing its way through our front line."  
  
"I don't care about proving anything." Said Ian, dryly. "I just want to find a way for us to beat them. Some way to drive them back. They've taken too much."  
  
Ian hadn't thought about them in a while, but the conversation brought them all back to the front of his mind. He saw their faces again, heard their voices, listened to them as they cried out in the dark, and were then brutally silenced. The Spider Monkeys. Harold. Lorraine. Old friends that should have been family, if only he had had the courage to tell them. Ian's heart suddenly felt heavy, and weak, and he remembered the feeling that had haunted him on Widow XII, a lifetime ago, and wondered what had become of it. He looked deep into himself, and tried to find, there and then, what kind of a man he had become. He had already attacked three people on this wild hunt of his. What it were all for naught? If there was no answer, no solution, no salvation; what then? But there had to be. There had to be.  
  
"It's done." Said the Torch. "Confederate personnel files at Reading Par will update in an hour, and when they do, your face, fingerprints, and retinal I.D. will replace those of Craig Turvey's. You sure that'll be enough?"  
  
"No. But it's worth a try, yes?"  
  
"Hmh. Better find someplace out of the way to hide out until your roll call tomorrow. The next time I hear from you…"  
  
"If all goes well," said Ian, "I'll be inside the Dead Zone."   
  



	27. Chapter 2: The Pilot - Part 11

  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 2: THE PILOT  
  
PART 11  
  
By Mya Thevendra  
  
  
  
The first attempt was, as expected, the least successful, not to mention fairly painful. After hauling herself onto her feet, Kimiko was quite unprepared at how easily her knees buckled under her weight; a tumble forward ended with her clouting her head against the door of the storage cell, and then collapsing backwards onto the floor. Not one to be deterred by such a trivial thing as gravity, however, she tried again. And again. And on the fourth time, she managed to hold a position vaguely resembling upright. While she balanced herself, Kimiko briefly pondered the wonderful things that people take for granted: the ability to remain vertical, for example.  
  
Valerie had been gone for ten minutes or so, and Kimiko was growing anxious. According to what Valerie had said, the junkers wouldn't return for a couple of hours, but the one they left asleep in the canteen could wake up at any moment; if he did, two girls, one starved and the other partially paralysed, wouldn't pose much trouble to him. Hobbling back over towards the door, Kimiko carefully opened it, and looked through the gap. She had heard Valerie turn right down the corridor, back towards the room where she had been imprisoned, and she remembered the junkers say that the others cadets had been held in "Freight two", apparently yet another storage area. Rather than wait in uncertainty, Kimiko chose to make her unsteady way through the dim, wrecked passageway to find the others.  
  
She moved slowly, and cautiously at first, using the passage's wall to support herself, but she felt stronger with each step, and realising that there was little danger with the station now being all but deserted, she hurried on. Passing her former cell, she glanced briefly inside, and then ahead into the gloom; in front was a weakly lit sign, above the doors to a stairwell, which read "Freight Holding and Habitat". Kimiko quietly slid the doors open, and after a moment's hesitation, she descended to the level below. It was a little brighter on the station's Habitat ring, and following the large, stencilled numbering on the walls, she soon found Freight Hold Two. The chamber was sectioned off behind a large, heavy-set sliding door; Kimiko gave it a push, but it held fast, still securely locked. Looking through the grill, she could see nothing on the other side save darkness, and she heard no sound other than the dull, distant thrumming of the station's reactor core. Valerie was nowhere to be seen.  
  
Kimiko stood still against the door, peering into the shadows beyond. Valerie had left her maybe fifteen minutes ago now, and yet there was no sign of her. A sudden, and very alarming thought struck Kimiko, and following another illuminated sign, she shuffled frantically towards the canteen.  
  
It opened out at the end of a short corridor; a fairly wide space compared to the cramped compartments and passageways elsewhere aboard the station. A few metal tables with plastic chairs were arranged within, and there were trolleys of cutlery and dinner trays lying against the wall, or tipped over onto the floor. Kimiko stopped dead. One of the junkers was seated at a table near the centre of the room, his head laid upon folded arms, evidently fast asleep. Standing above him, and reaching down towards him with a very shaky hand, was Valerie. Kimiko very nearly screamed out there and then. It was as she had feared; Valerie had apparently lost her bottle, and had resolved to try and reason with one of their captors. Mouthing a silent curse, Kimiko waved her arms in the air to attract Valerie's attention. Like an animal spied in the dark, she stared up, her face frozen in surprise, and then held up her hand, as if to warn Kimiko off.  
  
"No, damn it!" Kimiko hissed under her breath.  
  
But Valerie didn't stop. She moved closer and closer, and then to Kimiko's surprise, she reached down towards the man's hip. Kimiko stood rooted to the spot, terrified to move, or to make a sound, when Valerie finally drew back her hand, and Kimiko realised at last what she had come to the canteen for. Moving as slowly and as carefully as she could, and with breath held, Valerie turned, brandishing between thumb and forefinger a ring of thick metal keys.   
  
Obviously the keys to Freight Two hadn't been discarded nearby, as was the case with the ones to Kimiko's cell, and Valerie had reckoned, correctly, on the junker having them. Kimiko gestured at her, urging her to hurry; Valerie began to move away from the table, and allowed herself a cautious grin, which suddenly contorted into a grimace of shock, as two of the keys on the ring clinked sharply together. She froze, paralysed with fright. For a second, it seemed as though the junker was still lost in his drooling slumber, and she took another step forward, but then in the corner of her eye, he stirred, and slowly looked up. He said nothing at first, and simply stared at Valerie with glassy, half open eyes. It was in the next moment that he exploded out of his chair, knocking it to the ground, and lunged at her. Valerie squealed, and started away from him; with a feral grunt, he thrust a greasy hand into her matted hair, and held it tight, dragging her screaming to the floor.  
  
"Whaddya doin'? Hunh?" he barked, as he brutally yanked her mane.  
  
She winced, and out of sheer desperation dug the heel of her boot into the man's shin. He hissed and staggered; Valerie fell to the side and tried to free herself from his slackening grip, but she was too weak. A look of blind rage fell across the junker's face, and once again his hand clenched tight around her hair.   
  
At this point, Kimiko would ideally have liked to cannonball headfirst into the creep's stomach; she'd seen it in a videodisk film once, and had been suitably impressed with the results. As things were, with shaky legs, and a somewhat diminished sense of balance, she fell slightly short of her target. Uttering a shrill war cry, she barrelled forward, tripped, and crumpled into a dazed heap at the junker's feet; this was bad enough in itself, but it was the rasping, scornful laughter which followed, that served to push Kimiko over the edge.   
  
She'd read somewhere that the human jaw muscles were strong enough to support nearly a hundred and eighty pounds, roughly the whole weight of a grown man. It was thoughts like these that kept Kimiko warm at night. With little, or most likely no regard for her own safety, she reached up and sunk her teeth into the junker's thigh; Valerie hit the floor hard as he cast her aside, and lay still. Even though Kimiko still hadn't recovered fully from the Terlazine, there was enough strength in her jaws to cause a deep and grisly wound; blood soaked through the junker's overalls, and streamed down Kimiko's chin, and she held tight as he flailed and thrashed, roaring in pain. She gave a muffled grunt as he cuffed her across the side of the head, and was unable to resist him forcing her flat onto the ground. Straddling her across the chest, he began to throttle her. It was an appalling sight, both had been reduced to tears, and neither was willing to yield to the other. With her eyes shut tight, Kimiko summoned what strength she could, and bit deeper still. She felt the weight of her assailant on top of her, his warm, oily fingers tightening around her throat, and imagined that this might very well be the end of her, when suddenly she heard a noise like a bell being rung. The man's grip relaxed, and his weight slowly slid off her to the side; opening her eyes, Kimiko looked up. Standing above the junker's limp form was Valerie, shivering from fear, and wielding a rather badly dented metal dinner tray.  
  
"Jesus, are you all right?"  
  
Kimiko rubbed her neck, and spat a wad of blood onto the floor.  
  
"Oh yeah Mailer," she croaked, "I'm peachy, absolutely fucking peachy."  
  
She hobbled to her feet with Valerie's help, and jabbed the toe of her boot into the unconscious junker's ribs.  
  
"Asshole."  
  
"Come on," said Valerie, tugging Kimiko's arm, "I've got the keys."  
  
Kimiko had already forgotten the hasty conclusion which she had reached mere moments ago, and Valerie said nothing, although she suspected as much. With each supporting the other, the two weary cadets trudged back down the flickering corridor to free their classmates.  
  



	28. Chapter 2: The Pilot - Part 12

  
  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 2: THE PILOT  
  
PART 12  
  
By Mayavan Thevendra  
  
  
After some trial and error, Valerie found the correct key to open the door to Freight Two, and the two of them ventured slowly inside. Kimiko's wandering hands hit upon a lighting panel in the darkness; icy blue beams arced from wall to wall and streaked across the low ceiling. Lying near the centre of the bay were the nine surviving passengers from their shuttle, still very much unconscious. They woke Carol first, and while Valerie went about reviving the others, Kimiko gave her teacher a reassuring grin.   
  
"What? Unh. What's happened? Kimiko?" Spluttered Carol.  
  
"Relax Buxton," said Kimiko, trying her best to look plucky, "we've got it all under control. You'll never guess what's happened."  
  
Carol's eyelids drooped, and as she fell unconscious once again, Kimiko's gaze was drawn to her broken leg; the junkers had tied a flimsy looking splint to it, and had wrapped up her knee, but through the bandaging, Kimiko could see the ugly lump where the bone had pierced Carol's flesh.   
  
"The co-pilot's not here." Mumbled Valerie.  
  
"I guess he didn't make it."  
  
"Look, there's no way they'll be able to make it down to the shuttle hangar by themselves," said Valerie, "There isn't enough time, there's, there's too much of that damn drug still in their systems."  
  
"Well then what the hell are we gonna do?"  
  
"I don't know!"  
  
Valerie wiped a grimy hand across her brow, and shook her head.  
  
"I, I suppose we'll just have to carry all of them down to…wait a minute. Oh, stupid!" she cried, slapping her forehead, "There's a freight trolley close to the hangar, I spotted it when we first got here; we can use it to carry them all, I'm sure it's big enough!"  
  
The two of them wasted no time. Valerie shot on ahead down to the hangar, two levels below, and by the time Kimiko had caught up, she had already located the trolley and was dragging it slowly back. The wheels were rusted and rolled awkwardly, sending the trolley sliding into the sides of the corridor. Even with both of them handling it, they had a hard enough time hauling it up the various service ramps and slopes, that it took them a good quarter of an hour to return to their classmates.   
  
"What the hell is this?" coughed one of the cadets.  
  
"It's a freight trolley you dummy," answered Valerie, "We're going to load all of you onto it, and then get you down to the hangar."  
  
"What's going on? Where, where the hell are we?"   
  
"There's no time," said Kimiko, as she and Valerie began to drag the others onto the trolley, "Look, just trust us, okay? All right? This is not a place that we want to be, now c'mere!"  
  
One by one, the cadets' wilted bodies were arranged onto the trolley, although not without complaint; it was a tight fit to get everyone on, and loose arms and legs had to be tucked in place so that they didn't scrape along the floor. Carol was still unconscious, and Valerie and Kimiko put her on last of all, taking care not to disturb her shattered leg. Using some nearby package binding, they fastened their classmates in place as best as they could, and then with Kimiko leading the front end, and Valerie pushing from behind, the cadets started off back towards the shuttle hangar.  
  
Descending the ramps was far easier than hauling the trolley up them, although it was all the more wayward now that it was fully loaded. Kimiko lost her footing more than once, very nearly ending up beneath its wheels, and several collisions with stationary objects, not to mention walls and doors didn't help in the slightest.  
  
"Will you keep this thing straight?" hollered Valerie.  
  
"I'm trying, but you keep pushing it in the wrong fucking direction!" snapped Kimiko, "Big shot pilot, ya can't even steer a stupid cargo trolley!"  
  
"Oh shut up! Just hurry, we haven't got much time left!"  
  
Once onto the hangar level, they both took hold from behind, and heaved the trolley along the corridor with as much pace as they could gather. A sharp bend brought them skidding to a stop, much to the distress of their passengers, and as they rounded the corner, they travelled into a windowed overpass, which ran directly above the poorly lit hangar. The outer doors were open, awaiting the return of Grill and his crew, as well as whatever new piece of salvage they had laid their hands on. The cadets could see through into the wide space beyond; mottled chunks of grey and murky brown drifted slowly across the blackness: evidently the junkers' base was hidden within an asteroid field, although exactly how dense or large a field, was impossible to tell. The bay itself was a good hundred feet or so in width, enough to service four or five small vessels; at that moment, aside from various heaps of assorted trash and several ship chassis, there was but one salvage boat left, sitting idly on the far side.   
  
"Christ. Let's hope that thing works." Said Kimiko.  
  
Leaving the overpass, they arrived at a working freight elevator, apparently used for bringing up salvage and equipment. Once on the level below, they straightaway found themselves in the hangar's observation booth.   
  
"Look at this mess!"   
  
"Never mind the mess," said Valerie, leaving the trolley, "just look for the bay door controls!"  
  
A grubby control panel fringed by red and yellow warning stripes seemed to Kimiko to be the most obvious candidate. She triggered the door controls; power groaned in the walls around them, and a sudden judder passed beneath them. At the end of the bay, the wide outer doors trembled, and slowly began to slide shut. A red warning bulb on one of the consoles lit up, and a diode panel flashed the message:   
  
DO NOT ENTER HANGAR. REPRESSURISATION IN PROGRESS.  
  
"A hangar this size should take about five minutes to pressurise, I mean, if everything's working properly." Valerie mused.  
  
"Five minutes. Sweet. We'll be outta here in a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes tops, and we'll be long gone by the time those fuckers get back. We got this one in the bag Mailer!"  
  
"Sure, that's if that shuttle over there'll actually fly, and if we can navigate through those asteroids without getting creamed, and if we can find any Confederate ships before we get attacked again by God knows what!" Valerie said, scowling. "We're not out of this yet."  
  
While the hangar pressurised, Valerie and Kimiko checked on the others. Aside from Carol, they were all awake, though still quite incapable of movement; they were now more alert than before, however, and begged for answers to their questions. Kimiko and Valerie outlined what had happened since they had started off towards the rally point at Cid Fleiis, some three days ago; the attack of the winged alien, their capture by junkers, and Valerie's subsequent rescue of Kimiko from her cell. Despite one or two disagreements in the story's telling, the other cadets got the idea, and generally speaking, were quite happy that they had been mostly unconscious though all of it.  
  
"So what now?" wearily asked Cadet Drickson.  
  
"Now?" replied Kimiko, "well, in about another minute, we're gonna get onto that shuttle, and then we're gonna kiss this shithole goodbye."  
  
"At least that's the plan." Added Valerie, sourly.  
  
"God, Mailer, would you please, just try being optimistic? Y'know, for once? This is gonna work, I know it!" said Kimiko.  
  
A series of beeps from the console signalled the end of the repressurisation; the diode panel now read that the bay was safe to enter, and a now audible klaxon at the far end of the bay sent a deep, echoing blast all the way back to the observation booth. The large access hatch along the sidewall was thrown open, and Valerie and Kimiko carefully eased the trolley out onto the floor of the hangar. Debris of all descriptions lay scattered across the rear of the bay, and dozens of ship components lay suspended from clasps and hooks on the walls and ceiling.  
  
"It's weird," said Cadet Palmer as the trolley was rolled towards the vacant shuttle, "but it reminds me of…an abattoir."  
  
"Yeah, I know what you mean." Kimiko said quietly. "God, leave it to a bunch of pilots to get cut up about a hangar full of conked-out ships."  
  
The salvage boat looked as though it was in good stead, and the cadets could only guess that it had been left behind because the junkers already had enough ships to bring in their haul. There was no security system, and once the outer seals had been unlocked, the doors to the main hold slid open with little fuss. There was a long passenger bench along each side of the cabin, and each one was equipped with a set of sturdy looking safety straps. Kimiko and Valerie wasted no time, and began to carry their classmates on board, and strapped them into their seats; fortunately there was enough room to put Carol's legs up onto the bench, and once she was securely fastened in, the two of them climbed through into the cockpit.  
  
"Reckon you can fly this thing?" Kimiko asked, settling into the co-pilot's chair.  
  
"Me?"  
  
"My arms and legs still feel pretty rubbery, Mailer. You'd better do it."  
  
Valerie nodded, and gave the flight consoles a quick look over.  
  
"Yeah, looks familiar, should be a piece of cake."  
  
She threw the ignition, and a low rumble grew beneath their feet as the boat's engines began to warm up.  
  
"We're good for fuel," reported Kimiko, "environment tanks are near capacity, power core output's looking good. We've got a working com system too."  
  
"Should we send out a distress signal?"  
  
"Nuh-uh. Let's leave it until we're in the clear, I don't want to risk one of those bastards picking it up."  
  
"Okay. Hey wait. How are we going to open those?" asked Valerie pointing out in front towards the hangar bay doors.  
  
Kimiko stared at them through the window. "We need someone in the booth."  
  
"Can't we do it from in here?"  
  
"I don't know, have a look. I'm gonna go back."  
  
"What?" said Valerie as Kimiko stepped out of her seat, "You can't do it from there! Once the hangar starts to depressurise, you won't be able to get back!"  
  
"Yeah, I know, Mailer, I'm not a frickin' moron, but there's got to be a delay switch or a timer system or something. Stay here!"  
  
Kimiko jumped down through the open shuttle hatch, and sprinted back to the observation booth. As she frantically hunted through the mess on top of the workstations, Valerie's voice came across the wire from the shuttle.  
  
"Satomi? You there?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm here." Answered Kimiko into a nearby microphone, "Find anything?"  
  
"No, there are no trigger switches to any of the booth consoles from here, just radio. You'll have to do it from in there."  
  
"Yeah, that's what I thought." Scowled Kimiko.  
  
Amidst greasy scraps of toilet roll, spent bullet casings and a couple of dirty magazines, the manual controls for the hangar pressure systems were nowhere to be found. Kimiko's heart thumped as she began to feel the seconds ticking away.  
  
"Damn it, come on, come on, where are you!"  
  
"Hey, Satomi! Can you hear that?"  
  
"Hear what?" said Kimiko.  
  
"That! It's…adio signal…nterfering with…annel!"  
  
Valerie's words fell away, replaced by static; Kimiko examined the communications console, and saw the reason why - interference from a nearby radio transmission which was being picked up by the base's signal antenna. She flicked through the channels, searching for it, and froze, as she abruptly heard the unpleasantly familiar voice of Grill barking across the loudspeaker.  
  
"…uckin' idiots! I'm go…ill every last one of you shi…umb bastards!", screeched Grill. "I swear to God, if one of you fucks sold us out, I'm gonna rip his spine out, and…ean my…with it! You hear me?"  
  
"Boss, please," sobbed another voice, "we had no idea that ship was rigged…ey came outta nowhere!"  
  
"God damn Krey Ganjes bloodsuckers!" hissed Grill, "If th…ollowed us back here, we're dead meat!"  
  
The hangar pressure warning light suddenly flashed red; Kimiko glanced across at the diode panel - it read:   
  
DO NOT ENTER HANGAR. DEPRESSURISATION IN PROGRESS.  
  
"Mailer!" she screamed, "They're opening the hangar, close the shuttle hatch…Mailer!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	29. Chapter 2: The Pilot - Part 13

  
  
COUNTERPOINT  
  
CHAPTER 2: THE PILOT  
  
PART 13  
  
By Mayavan Thevendra  
  
  
Kimiko shouted again into the microphone, but there was no answer, no sign that Valerie had heard her. She cursed the archaic piece of scrap that the junkers were using as a com system, and peered out through the viewing panel; past the debris, and the swinging metal limbs, she saw the salvage boat, it's access hatch still ajar. The whole bay was washed in the red light of the pressure warning lamps on the walls, and the klaxon on the far side was screaming it's guts out. Valerie had to have realised what was happening by now.  
  
"Come on Mailer, shut the damn hatch!"   
  
Brutal images of Kimiko's classmates being sucked out into space through the open access hatch flashed through her mind, and suddenly her heart froze, as the realisation struck that she herself had left the door to the observation booth open in her wake.  
  
Flinging herself towards the doorway, she grabbed the bar handle, and heaved it shut with such force that she lost her footing, and tumbled to the floor; the door's pressure locks clicked and sucked, frantically sealing the booth airtight. In the next instant, an impossibly loud hiss shot through from the hangar, as the air inside it was steadily siphoned off into space, the klaxon's blare growing quieter and quieter as a vacuum formed in its stead. The floor shook again, and clambering to her feet, Kimiko watched the giant hangar doors shake horribly in their frames, and then begin to open. Almost afraid to look, she turned her eyes to the salvage boat; but there were no floating, lifeless bodies - the hatch had been shut, and was apparently secure. A sigh of relief was all Kimiko managed, before the walls began to rumble once again; the junkers' ships appeared against the blackness beyond, and like a pack of bleeding animals, they came limping across the threshold, and into the hangar. There were four of them, and all appeared to be damaged in varying degrees - smouldering scorch marks riddled across the crafts' sides indicated cannon fire of some sort, as well as evidence of explosive damage, and one of them looked as though it had been involved in a collision. The boats came to an uneasy stop on the base of the hangar, and while Kimiko watched, crouching behind one of the terminals, the great bay doors drew shut once more.   
  
The terrible severity of what was happening only then occurred to her; Valerie and the others were trapped in the unused salvage boat, and she was trapped on the station. There was no way for them to return to their cells, to deceive the junkers into thinking all was well - once they had left their vessels, it would only be a matter of time before they discovered that their prisoners had escaped, and even if Kimiko could sneak past them to join the other cadets, the minute or so it took to depressurise the hangar meant that any attempt to leave the station would be quickly spotted, and crushed.  
  
Air tanks began to fill the bay with breathable atmosphere; Kimiko decided her only option for now was to hide. Keeping low, she rummaged around the back of the observation booth, lifting up boxes, and wooden planks, searching for anything large enough to conceal herself with. A small storage locker stared out at her from the corner; Kimiko stumbled over the piles of trash, wrenched it open, and slid inside. It was a tight squeeze -a low shelf meant that she had to crouch down and sit with her legs hitched up. She pulled the door shut, taking care not to close it completely and trap herself, and waited. The cold, which she had so far managed to ignore, began to work its way up her spine, and she tried to restrain herself from shivering as she watched through the venting slits in the door for any sign of the junkers. It was a brief wait. Barely half a minute had passed when the hatch to the observation booth unlocked, and swayed open. Not moving, barely even breathing, Kimiko looked on, and listened.  
  
"Tavis, go and find Coombs, I want to know why that jerkoff closed the damn doors behind us!"  
  
A stroke of luck, at least for the moment; Grill had assumed that it was the junker from the canteen who had closed the hangar doors. But as Tavis came into view, and then disappeared out of sight, Kimiko realised that in a matter of minutes, he'd find the junker's unconscious body where she and Valerie had left it, and raise the alarm. Grill was the next to come into view, and he was fuming. The others filtered in behind, one by one, looking as battered as the ships that had carried them; they cringed with every harsh word that left Grill's lips, apparently more afraid of him than whatever or whoever it was that had set upon them.  
  
"Pauly, get up to ops, and switch on the damn scanner! Now!"  
  
Another junker scurried out of sight, leaving Grill and two others in the booth, one of whom was so frightened that his legs were shaking. Grill turned to him, the light in his mechanical eye glowing a cold, sickly green, and he smiled.  
  
"Sit down, Toby."  
  
Toby didn't do anything at first; he just stood there like some shell-shocked rodent, turning his cap around in his hands, but Grill's withering stare quickly pushed him to take a seat at the console next to him.  
  
"Boss, I had no idea that hulk was rigged, I swear!"  
  
"I never said you did, Toby." Said Grill, and stepped nearer to him. "But facts are facts. That ship was your find, you're the one who brought news of it to me. Awful coincidence that Krey Ganjes smugglers had wired that very same ship to blow itself to pieces, as soon as someone got near it. And I thought it was real strange how your boat was the furthest away from it when it did blow."  
  
"Boss, please…"  
  
Toby was trembling like he'd gone into shock; Grill took another step, and rested his arm on the console next to Toby's head.  
  
"Poor Deke, never knew what hit him," he said. "caught in an explosion like that, probably died instantly, don't you think?"  
  
Toby shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head, then nodded pathetically, completely bewildered by the question.  
  
"And then those tugs appeared from out of nowhere, and started blasting. They tore Meijin's bird right in two, poor bastard. They got Dumont's ship right in the ass," said Grill, pointing a thumb to the other junker in the booth, "and it was all I could do to get out of there without my damn wings falling off!"  
  
"They shot at me too, boss." Whimpered Toby.  
  
"That they did. Now why do you suppose that was?"  
  
Toby shrugged, and shook his head again. "I don't know, boss."  
  
"Oh, you don't know, boss?"   
  
Grill leaned forward, until his mangled, machine-grafted face was a mere inch away from Toby's.  
  
"Let me suggest a reason. After you sold us out - "  
  
"No, boss…"  
  
"Shut up! After you sold us out, to your cocksucker Krey Ganjes friends, they figured it wasn't worth the effort to pay you, and decided to off you along with the rest of us! How about that reason, you miserable little fuck? Does that sound plausible?"  
  
Toby was a quivering wreck at this point, dribbling and blowing mucus bubbles like a six-year old. He could barely speak coherently, let alone argue his defence. Grill stared scornfully at him for a moment, then stood back up, turned around and walked away.  
  
"You know what? I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt on this one. Tell you the truth, I honestly don't think you're smart enough to have set up something like that. I mean, for Christ's sake, what are the chances that a big time syndicate like the Krey Ganjes, would put their trust in a dumbass like yourself?"  
  
"That's right, boss! They wouldn't," Toby said, nodding enthusiastically, "they wouldn't, no way!"  
  
In one smooth motion, Grill pulled a small calibre handgun from his belt, spun around, and shot Toby once through the forehead. The sound of it jolted Kimiko, and she nearly kicked the locker door open out of shock. Toby's lifeless body slid lazily to the floor, his face a frozen mask of disbelief.  
  
"But I guess they did."   
  
Grill turned to face Dumont, the other junker, who was wearing a look of abject horror, and waved his pistol , casually.  
  
"Relax."  
  
"S-sure thing, Grill!"  
  
Slipping the gun back into his belt, Grill pushed Toby's body to one side with his boot, and activated the communications terminal.  
  
"Pauly. Pauly…Pauly!"  
  
"Yeah, Grill, I read you."  
  
"Well, fucking answer, then! Where are those bastards, can you see them?"  
  
"No sign of 'em Grill. I think we lost 'em."  
  
"Don't think! Just look, and don't take your eyes off that damn scanner!"  
  
"You got it."  
  
Just then, the radio handset slung to Grill's side began to chatter; Kimiko's heart missed a beat. Grill snatched up the walkie-talkie, and opened the line.  
  
"Go ahead."  
  
"This is Tavis. I'm in the canteen - I found Coombs."  
  
All of a sudden, Kimiko's gut felt tight. She watched, and tried desperately to stay calm.  
  
" Well, he'd better have a damn good reason for shutting those bay doors behind us; I just had a little 'chat' with Toby, I'd hate to have to come talk to Coombs as well."  
  
"Grill, he's out cold!"  
  
Grill stood still, an ugly grimace across his face.  
  
"What?"  
  
"He's knocked out! Someone's banged him over the head pretty good."  
  
It was only a matter of time - the game was up. Grill realised what was what in a heartbeat.  
  
"Those kids."  
  
"Say again?"  
  
"You idiot, those damn kids we brought on board, some of them must've gotten loose! Get Coombs back on his feet and go and look for them, both of you!"  
  
Shoving Dumont out of the way, Grill squinted out into the hangar towards the last salvage boat, in which Valerie and the others were hiding. Kimiko's breath quickened, but there was nothing she could do.  
  
"The spare's still here, they must still be on the station somewhere."  
  
Grill paced back and forth a couple or times across the booth, almost absent-mindedly picking at the skin around his facial graft, and slowly ran a glove through his hair.  
  
"Jesus." He sighed, quietly. "Dumont, is it too much to ask to have one day, just one day, when the entire galaxy doesn't decide to shit on top of my head? Is it?"  
  
"No, it ain't."  
  
"In one day, I get a shipful of meat, and Confederate meat to boot, and then old Toby here brings me news of the best junk haul we've found since the start of the year. And then it all turns to crap. Every God damn bit of it!" yelled Grill, and drove a vicious kick into Toby's corpse. "I mean, Christ! I'm a hardworking guy, do I deserve this shit? Do I?"  
  
Dumont said nothing to answer to his chief's ranting, he just shrank against the wall and nervously shook his head.   
  
"Damn it, I'm thirsty. Get me a beer."   
  
"Sure thing, Grill."  
  
Kimiko had the whole thing sorted out. As soon as Grill and Dumont left the booth, she'd make a break for the spare salvage boat. With these 'Krey Ganjes' characters on their tail, sooner or later the junkers would have to leave the station, and they'd leave the hangar doors wide open after themselves; when the coast was clear, the cadets could fly the boat straight out, and head back to Confederate space. Kimiko psyched herself up; the plan was foolproof, all she had to do was wait for the right moment - once it came, she'd be home free. And then the locker door opened.  
  
"Grill. Look here."  
  
The low light of the observation booth poured in; Kimiko threw her hands up in front of herself, and slowly lowering them, she found Grill staring down directly at her.  
  
"You."   
  
He looked her up and down, as though he was eyeing a dead animal - that same look he'd given her when she was lying paralysed in her cell.  
  
"Well, you're not quite a beer, but you'll do." He smirked. "Get her out of there."  
  
Dumont huffed a filthy chuckle, and reached down like a crane; his hand clenched tight around Kimiko's collar, and he dragged her out of the locker headfirst and threw her on the floor.   
  
"All right, girl. Looks like you've got some explaining to do." Said Grill, kneeling down by her head. Kimiko grunted, and tried to scramble to her feet, but quickly found Dumont's boot forced down onto her back, pressing her firmly to the floor.  
  
"Nff…fuckers!"  
  
Tavis's voice came across the radio once again, sounding ever more distraught.  
  
"Grill, you there?"  
  
"Yeah, it's all right, Tav, I've found our little jailbreaker. I'll take care of her."  
  
"They're all gone, all the ones we dumped in freight two, they're missing!"  
  
Grill's face transformed into a scowl of contempt, his eyes fixed on Kimiko like a bird of prey.  
  
"Hold on," he muttered, and replaced the radio at his side. "I'm impressed, girl. I didn't expect anyone could move around this soon after getting shot full of terlazine, but I guess I was wrong. So here you are. But where are your pals?"  
  
"Hnng, fuck you." sputtered Kimiko, her fear receding in favour of the burning resentment she felt for her captors. She gasped as Dumont's boot crushed harder into her back.  
  
"There's that tongue again," said Grill. "and it's starting to lose its charm. Now where are they? I doubt you'd have tried to leave here without them."  
  
Kimiko gritted her teeth, and laid her head against the ice-cold floor, her eyes screwed tightly shut. She said nothing.  
  
"You got them out of Freight Two, probably had to carry at least a few of them, and you made it all the way down here." Grill said, and stood up straight. "Must have been you that shut the hangar doors..."  
  
He gave his chin a vigorous scratch, stared into space for a second, looked through into the hangar, and then chuckled.   
  
"God damn, I must be extra stupid today."  
  
"Boss?" said Dumont.  
  
Grill nodded over to the western side of the hangar.  
  
"They're in the spare. Go get 'em."  
  
"No!" cried Kimiko.  
  
Dumont stepped off her back, and walked through into the hangar bay. After a moment to catch her breath, Kimiko scrabbled up to her feet, and lunged forward, only to find herself face to face with Grill's pistol.  
  
"You've got a lot of guts, girl. I like it, I'll admit. But this is the end of the line for you, you're just too much God damn hassle."  
  
"Bastard, I'll kill you." said Kimiko, her voice little more than a shrill whisper.  
  
"Only if I trip over your corpse."  
  
Before Grill could pull the trigger, Pauly's voice rasped through the com from the station's ops centre.  
  
"Grill!"  
  
"Not now, Pauly, I'm in the middle of something here."  
  
"Grill, they found us! I got their ships on the scope, they're all aroun-"  
  
But Pauly never finished. The sudden sound of metallic thunder echoed through the walls, followed by a terrible, and tremendous whine: the sound of metal bulkheads being cleaved. Grill staggered back, and slumped against the wall as the floor shook.  
  
"Bastards are going to blow us to pieces!" he hissed, and grabbed at one of the workstations, accessing what Kimiko had been searching for herself, before the junkers had returned - the manual controls for the hangar's pressure pumps. Grill set the bay to depressurise in ninety seconds, and then swung his handgun around towards Kimiko to finish the job, but she was on him in a flash.  
  
"You little bitch, you're dead!" screamed Grill.  
  
The gun went off next to Kimiko's ear, and a burst of sickening, white hot pain shuddered through her skull; nearly senseless, she drove herself forward, dragging Grill down to the floor. He shrieked with pain as she drove her thumb into his remaining eye, and flailed at her like a crazed beast; ripping her hand away, he brought his leg up, braced it against her, and threw her backwards. Kimiko landed hard, nearly breaking her neck against one of the booth's chairs, but she shook off the pain, and crawled back onto her knees. Another crack. A bullet ricocheted off the terminal next to her head; she glanced around, and saw a little black hole, the business end of Grill's pistol, pointed right at her. Again the floor shook, but harder this time, a horrendous groan filled the air above their heads, and like an avalanche of metal, the booth's ceiling suddenly collapsed. Kimiko threw herself towards the doorway, getting clipped by a metal fixture as she fell, but landing clear. The commotion roared and clattered behind her, but she didn't look back; tears streamed down her face as she gathered herself up, and with what strength she had left, Kimiko staggered towards the waiting salvage boat.  
  
But she couldn't get to it. The entire bay had been turned upside down; another explosion rocked the station, bringing ship chassis and yet more unsorted junk tearing down onto the hangar floor. The entire structure was shaking itself to pieces around her, and she could barely see straight; a wall of mangled wreckage blocked off the westernmost edge of the bay, cutting the spare salvage boat off from sight. Kimiko had no idea of how long was left before those great doors in front of her would open once again, but she had to join the others before they did, or else be dragged into oblivion.  
  
Suddenly, Dumont appeared, clambering over rubble and smashed machinery. Little more than a dizzy animal, he floundered to and fro, shielding his ears from the bellow of explosions and twisting metal. A huge, rusty turbine came loose from its support hooks on the ceiling, and crashed into the floor to his side, throwing him down. Still more debris tumbled, smoking and sparking, until it had nearly surrounded him.  
  
Then, like something out of a nightmare, a cold, cruel lump of metal pawed at Kimiko's cheek, and she looked back into the muzzle of Grill's gun. He stood over her once again, his face sopping with blood, his other arm hanging limp and ruined by his side. He screamed a last command across to Dumont in the distance:  
  
"Get to your boat!"  
  
And then he squashed his gun into Kimiko's temple.  
  
"You! Get in there, now!" he yelled, shoving her towards the salvage boat behind her. The awful sounds of mayhem chased them inside, and after slinging her roughly into the pilot's seat, Grill sealed the access hatch, and strapped himself into one of the side-benches behind her.  
  
"I can't fly with this busted arm, so you're going to do it for me - and I know you can. You fuck this up, you'll die too, you think about that. And if that isn't enough, you think about the gun I've got pointed at the back of your pretty head. Now get the engines going; when those door open, you fly us the hell out of here."  
  
The ship's burners groaned from beneath and behind as Kimiko brought them on line; as soon as she had, the hangar doors abruptly exploded with a near deafening blast. A great blossom of fire ringed the frame as the fractured panels were blown out into space, and suddenly every fragment, every tin can, every piece of junk in the hangar that wasn't nailed down, was flying out to follow them. The ship lurched forward uncontrollably, bits of debris clanging and scraping against the hull as they were sucked out into space.   
  
"Go, go!" hollered Grill.  
  
Steering the boat was nigh impossible, so Kimiko threw the boosters on, and hung on for dear life. The other ships were being pulled out along with them, one of them piloted by Valerie, but amidst the storm of flying scrap, there was no way of knowing which one it was.  
  
"Watch out!"   
  
Kimiko saw them floating a kilometre outside of the station, amidst the tumbling chunks of rock - a band of tugs, surely the ones that had attacked the junkers. As the boat cleared the hangar, she glanced through the side window to get her first look of the station from the outside, and found that their attackers had already levelled most of it. A sweeping inferno had consumed the uppermost decks, and huge, cavernous holes had been blown in the hull. Volleys of cannon fire danced around them; one of the tugs veered away from the group, latching onto the salvage boat's tail as Kimiko swerved it past. The other junker ships stumbled on into the crossfire, and in the corner of her eye, she watched one of them - it moved and turned as though being flown, rather than sliding pilot-less through space. Its thrusters fired madly, as it was smashed sideways by a drifting asteroid; then the hunting pack of tugs moved in quickly, circling it, taunting it, and finally pulverising it with their guns.   
  
There was no time to think. Kimiko watched space burn red and amber off the prow: cannon fire erupting from the tug behind them.  
  
"He's right on you! Lose him!"   
  
The boat handled like a slab of duracrete. Kimiko yanked the nose up, skimming the side of a gigantic asteroid, and tried to weave the ship through the debris. As though it were bound to their rear by a cord, the enemy tug held fast behind them, its guns blazing. Alarms howled like babies.  
  
"We're taking damage!" Kimiko yelled.   
  
A sudden bright, white light grew in space behind them, bathing everything within sight in its vivid glow. In an instant, it had surrounded them, and like a tidal wave, a terrific shockwave pummelled the ship's stern. Kimiko couldn't see around to the rear, but knew it was the station that had just succumbed to the tugs firepower, and exploded. A secondary blast battered the boat along, and Kimiko tried to ride the tremor; she caught the barest glimpse of their pursuer being macerated against a large asteroidal reef, and wrestling with the controls, she tried to steer their ship away from the same fate. For a half a dozen kilometres, the boat thundered on, and slowly, eventually, the surging wave behind them dissipated. As Kimiko brought the salvage boat around, the two of them saw the space the junkers' station had once occupied, now engulfed by a gradually swelling firestorm, a vast twisting thing, sprouting curling, smoky vines out into the ether.  
  
"Shit," said Grill, sounding as wretched as Kimiko felt. "I had big plans for that place."  
  
Kimiko stared deeply into the bright ball of flame, and tried to think, but no thought would come. Drenched in sweat and barely able to catch her breath, she just sat, and watched.  
  
"Come on, let's get out of here before they catch up with us. There's a waypoint logged into the comp, named 'Josephine', lock it in and start flying. Move it!"  
  
Remembering the gun that was being pointed at her, Kimiko did as she was told. The stars and rocks spun past. Soon, the rocks became more scarce, and the salvage boat began to emerge from the tattered edge of the asteroid field. An unfamiliar sun shone coldly at them. They were a long way from the Confederate rally point at Cid Fleiis, and Kimiko guessed that the fringe territory 'badlands' didn't lie too far off.  
  
"Sorry about your pals." Said Grill plainly, not even trying to sound sincere.  
  
"What do you mean?" Kimiko said quietly.  
  
"Well, they bought it, didn't they? Those tugs blew the shit out of them."  
  
"That wasn't them," said Kimiko, shaking her head, "that was your pal. Dumont."  
  
"You think I don't know my own ships? No, Dumont's made it out. Your pals were in the spare, that's the one that got wasted."  
  
It was a lie, thought Kimiko; he was trying to mess with her head. It had to be a lie. But Kimiko couldn't be sure; there was just too much garbage floating in the way to have gotten a good look at the boat before it was shot to pieces. She really couldn't tell whether it was her classmates' ship, or Dumont's. The only thought, the only meagre hope she had, was that Valerie was too good a pilot to have led them into their deaths like that. All of the dreadful boasting she did about her flying skills, it was for a reason - they had to be alive.  
  
"No, you're lying. My friends aren't dead." Said Kimiko to Grill, and twisted around to face him. "Dumont's dead. All of your asshole, junk-collecting friends are dead. And you're next, 'Grill'."   
  
Pulling the pistol's hammer back, Grill raised it up, pointing it at Kimiko's forehead. His eye was slick, glassy, but there was murder behind it, cold and clear.  
  
"You believe what you want, girl, if it makes you feel better. It doesn't matter to me one way or the other. But get this straight; alive or dead, your friends are gone - it's just you and me. You put any thoughts of escaping, or getting even with me out of your head, right now. The moment I want you dead, you die…you're mine now.   
  
Now turn the fuck around."  
  
She turned around. The ship carried on along its course, and arrived at Grill's waypoint, some forty kilometres beyond the asteroid field's outer boundary. There was no sign of any of their pursuers; for the moment, at least, they were safe. She was safe. As long as she did what she was told. All she had to do was fly.  
  
"I've got to get my shit together", muttered Grill, "lay low for a little while. Okay, there's another waypoint in there, named 'Alice', you see it?"  
  
Kimiko nodded.  
  
"All right. That's where we're going. Now you follow that waypoint, and if you even think about trying to steer us away someplace, then I won't even think twice. Do you understand?"  
  
Another nod.  
  
"Smart. That's smart. Now listen, it's not going to be easy flying; there are going to be at least a few more rock farms to fly through, magnetic winds, maybe even a solar storm. And there are any number of places where we could get jumped by raiders; it's no free ride. You've got to be good, girl. Are you good?"  
  
The engines hummed from beneath. Kimiko guided the salvage boat towards its new heading, and slowly eased the throttle forward.  
  
"There's no-one better." She said.  
  
  
  
END OF CHAPTER TWO  
  
  
  



End file.
